Children in Sun and Children in Shadow: 9:11-9:15 Dragon
by LMSharp
Summary: "'I want him safe,' Maric said, desperate. 'I want him as happy as he can be, considering. I want him free. So I'm being selfish, Eamon.'" One-shots set across Thedas in the lives of several characters. Subject and Singers of the Song series Part Two, feat. Alistair, Varric, Fenris, Cullen, F!Brosca, Cassandra, F!Hawke, F!Lavellan, and F!Tabris. AU elements. M for safety.
1. Alistair: Born in Grief

**Characters: **Eamon Guerrin, Duncan, Maric Theirin, Alistair Theirin

**Pairings:** Past, unspoken Maric TheirinxFiona; referenced Maric TheirinxRowan Guerrin; hinted Loghain Mac TirxRowan Guerrin

**AU Elements**: None

* * *

**9:11 Dragon**

**Redcliffe Castle, the Arling of Redcliffe, Ferelden**

The study door creaked open, and Eamon sighed. "I know it's late, Robern, I just need to—" He looked up, stopped, and sprang to his feet at once. The man who had entered his study was not his secretary. Eamon had never seen this man in his life.

"Peace, my lord," the man said quickly. He spoke in an Orlesian accent. "I mean you no harm."

"Who are you?" Eamon demanded. "How did you get past the guards?" He looked around wildly for a weapon, but he didn't sit down to keep accounts and log records with his sword on. Maybe he should. Maybe peace had made him lazy. Probably.

"I have certain skills," the man answered calmly. "I used them tonight by the order of your king."

There was a sword on the wall to Eamon's left, but it was fixed to the display. The edge was probably long gone. The poker, Eamon decided, was his best bet for a weapon, but it was halfway across the room. Could he reach it before the intruder went for the daggers belted at his waist? He looked as though he knew how to use them. "Maric?" Eamon asked. "I know nothing of this."

"There wouldn't have been much point in sending me as a secret emissary if Maric sent a herald through the front doors this afternoon," the man told him, as if this should have been obvious. He held both his hands above his head, as if to demonstrate his harmlessness. "Here. I have a letter. Can I approach?"

There was something very odd about all this, Eamon decided. Slowly, he stepped from behind his desk and circled the room until he could make out more of the man's features in the lamp and firelight. Despite the accent, he looked Rivaini, Eamon saw, not Orlesian, with a swarthy complexion and glittering black eyes. His thick, black hair was pulled back in a tight horsetail, but he wore his pointed, black beard cut short. He was younger than Eamon had thought at first, certainly no more than twenty; the beard was still sparse and straggly, and a gold ring glimmered in his ear. More to the point, Eamon recognized the griffon device he wore, worked in silver threads on the blue tunic he wore over medium plate and shaped into a broach to hold up his dark short cloak.

Eamon frowned. "You're a Grey Warden. Approach. What's this about?"

The young man crossed the threshold and came to meet him. He extended his hand and placed a letter in Eamon's hand. Inside was something heavy. Eamon raised the letter to peer at it and saw the king's own seal upon it, a double mabari head in red wax. It was unbroken.

In a single movement, Eamon cracked the seal. Out of the letter fell a ring, and Eamon caught it. Turning the ring over in his hand, he recognized the king's signet, he realized. He looked for blood upon it, tarnishing, any sign of a struggle or forgery, but the metal was unmarred and pure. Maric must have sent it to him as proof that the young man before him was on the king's business—but if this was not some sort of dire emergency, that business was likely very temporary, and Maric was likely very close.

The letter itself was short and to the point. The handwriting, like the ring and the seal on the letter, was Maric's own.

_This is Duncan, second-in-command of the Grey Wardens stationed here in Ferelden, and a friend. He has saved my life more than once, and I trust him. _

_ Go with him now, please. Tell no one why you do so. _

_Maric_

Eamon's eyes narrowed, but instead of arguing, now he slipped Maric's signet ring into the pocket of his vest, walked over to the hangers on the wall and lifted off a cloak. "What should I bring?" he asked the young man—Duncan.

"Only yourself," Duncan told him. "You'll be returning here before an hour's passed."

He slipped out of the room with no more noise than he had made when he'd entered, and Eamon fell into step beside him, following him down the corridors, left to go dark now that the household was abed. Eamon knew every inch of Castle Redcliffe, and so he did not trip or falter in the darkness—and suspiciously, the stranger did not either, though he produced no candle or dweomer for light. It was as if he had been to Castle Redcliffe before—or as if he were very used to moving in dark, unfamiliar corridors.

"Maric described the castle for you?" Eamon murmured, keeping his voice low.

"And your habit of working late," Duncan confirmed, "But I could have found you anyway. As I said: I possess certain skills. These days I only use them for the Grey Wardens—and on occasion for a friend."

_A friend_ he said. _Your king_, he'd said, and not his own. It was true the Grey Wardens owed no allegiance to any power or nation. Their only law was vigilance against the darkspawn in the event Blight ever rose up again, and they often recruited from the ranks of the criminal and the desperate, especially in this age when many believed they had become irrelevant, that there would never be another Blight. Maric, however, had always been different. Since he had first taken the throne, he'd shown an interest in the Deep Roads and defending against the darkspawn, and just last year, he had decreed the Wardens would be permitted within the borders of Ferelden once more after having been banished for over two centuries—after they had defied the supposed neutrality of their Order and led a rebellion against the king of that time. Maric seemed to believe they could be trusted now. It was rumored that in the weeks he had disappeared a little over a year ago he had even been traveling with them in the Deep Roads. Apparently, the rumors were true.

The only reason Maric would have to send this young man to infiltrate Castle Redcliffe to fetch Eamon without sending prior notice would be a meeting to held in the strictest of confidence. Maric did not want to even be seen coming to Castle Redcliffe this night, but if he had sent his signet ring ahead with this man, he was not so far that he would be conducting his business by proxy. All this was well enough, though had a feel of unusual gravity to it. But the Grey Warden's involvement—Eamon could not understand it.

"Is there a Blight?" he could not help but ask.

Duncan looked at him. "No. Try not to speak here. You'll get an explanation."

Eamon shifted, feeling cold and uncomfortable, despite his warm cloak. "You ask a great deal," he grumbled.

"Not me."

"You understand why I may have some difficulty trusting you?" Eamon snapped.

"Certainly," Duncan answered. "A stranger from a distrusted Order, and sounding as though he belongs to an enemy state, sneaks into your castle at night, evading your guards. Incidentally, randomizing patrol schedules makes it more difficult for an intruder to penetrate your defenses. If I had been here to steal or to assassinate someone, I wouldn't have had much trouble with it."

Eamon bristled. "Castle Redcliffe has never once been breached by an enemy."

"And it still hasn't," Duncan returned with equanimity. "But it could have been." He drew one of his shining, silver daggers, tossed it into the air and watched it spin, and caught it without looking. The hilt hit his hand with a soft smack, and he grinned at Eamon.

They had come to a small, servant's exit. Duncan led Eamon out of it, and Eamon saw the exit was unguarded. "Where is Westley?" Eamon demanded. "He was supposed to be on duty tonight."

"Westley decided he would rather go to the inn in town with a new friend tonight. He's fine, but I'd recommend you let him go. The clinking silver in the pockets of his new friend could buy a great deal of Garrow's fine, dark ale, and perhaps even the company of some of your pretty village girls—"

"I discourage prostitution in Redcliffe," Eamon started. Duncan looked back at him, raising an eyebrow.

"I never called them prostitutes. But girls enjoy a good time, or so I'm told. It's easier to have on a full purse." His mouth twitched up. "Or so I've heard."

Eamon sighed. That was the truth, at least. "So, Westley abandoned his post for some ale and congenial company. One of your friends?"

"As I said, I'd recommend you let him go. I guessed he'd go. Guards don't have as much fun as you would think, and we needed him out of the way, but if our intentions hadn't been noble ones?" Duncan shrugged, and in his casual manner, Eamon saw the shadow of a rogue. He could guess Maric would like this one, though he still had no idea why Maric would have traveled with the Wardens.

Duncan led Eamon through the hills, away from Redcliffe and into the hills. When the lamps of both castle and village were out of sight, Duncan cut off of the road toward the river, and shortly, the two of them had come to a cave. Two horses were hobbled outside, a fire was burning inside, and by the fire was seated a man.

The man stood, and the firelight flared on his blond hair. Eamon recognized his king, and in an instant, he knew what all this was about as well, for in his arms, Maric held a swaddled infant.

Eamon went to one knee. "Your Majesty," he said.

"Oh, get up, Eamon. We didn't get you out of bed, did we?"

"No, Your Majesty."

Maric smiled and shook his head. "Your lands are the best managed in Ferelden. Give yourself a break every now and then, would you?"

"If I did that, my lands might soon no longer be the best managed, my king," Eamon said. "And unless I am mistaken, you are here to ask me to be steward of something even more precious."

Maric's fingers tightened around the child's blanket, and he looked into its face. He had aged beyond his years since the death of Eamon's sister, Rowan, but of late he had seemed reinvigorated—once again interested in ruling Ferelden. Now, however, another great burden had descended on him, and Eamon saw regret and sorrow had drawn still new lines across the young king's face. "This is my son, Alistair," he said quietly. "I never meant to father him, and until recently, was unaware that I had. Yes. I would ask you to care for him."

Eamon held out his arms, and, somewhat reluctantly, the king handed him the child. He was still a mere infant, most likely still in need of nursing, but old enough his parentage was already plain in his face. He looked very like Cailan had as a babe, though his skin had more gold in it and the thatch of fair hair atop his head gleamed redder in the firelight than his father or brother's. "He _is_ your son," Eamon murmured, unable to quite keep the disappointment from his voice.

It had been some years since Rowan's death, true. Eamon did not believe Maric had once dishonored Rowan after they had been wed, though he knew their betrothal had been a rocky one. In the end, the king had come to deeply love Eamon's elder sister—but perhaps it had been too much to expect him to remain forever true to a memory. He was only six years Eamon's elder, still in the prime of his life.

Perhaps he should have expected this, Eamon thought, but even aside from his personal feelings as Maric's brother-in-law and Cailan's uncle, a royal bastard presented . . . complications. A royal bastard who resembled his father, even more so. Better if Maric had married again; no one would have blamed him. But a bastard was a potential threat to the future stability of Cailan's rule. If discovered, the boy could easily become a political tool in the hands of Cailan's enemies. He could also present a challenge to Cailan himself, when he grew. Although the throne of Ferelden had been passed to the firstborn Theirin for centuries now, the king or queen was always answerable to the Landsmeet, and it was not inconceivable that one day the Landsmeet might do like the freeholders and elect whoever they believed most fit—or easiest to manipulate.

Maric, of course, knew all of this. That was why he had summoned Eamon in such a secret manner, not even allowing himself to be seen coming to Redcliffe. He seemed unutterably weary in the firelight, and he did not look away from his son even once. "In another life, I would raise him alongside his brother," he said. "Cailan would like that, I think. He is too much alone. He would be a gift to us—but we would be no gift to him. Alistair—he has a chance to escape us, to live free of the weight of the responsibility I cannot spare Cailan. But only if I . . . only if I give him up."

Eamon looked away from the raw pain he heard in Maric's voice. "Where is his mother? He is too young to be long without suck."

"I've been trading for goat's milk along the road," Duncan said unexpectedly from where he stood quietly at the mouth of the cave. "There was a servant in Denerim who served as wet nurse for a time. There must be such a one at the castle or in the village as well."

Eamon glanced at Duncan. "I'm certain there is. But that isn't the question I asked." He looked back at Maric, waiting.

For a long moment, Maric didn't answer. Eamon saw an enormous struggle taking place behind his eyes. Then he bowed his head and answered. "When he asks, tell him his mother is dead."

Eamon raised his eyebrows. "Will it be the truth?" At first, Maric refused to answer again, and Eamon looked back at Duncan. The young man stared back at him evenly, revealing nothing. Now that Eamon knew why he had been summoned, the Grey Warden's part in all this was easier to guess. The babe was just the right age to have been conceived during Maric's time away with the Wardens. If Maric had only recently learned of him, he had likely done so when the Wardens returned to Ferelden.

"It may as well be the truth," Maric answered at last. "She swore her life away a long time ago, Eamon. She cannot care for our son, and it is her wish that the path she must walk not become a curse upon him. But I don't think she could bear him hating her for it—nor do I want him to."

Eamon nodded, accepting this. Still, it was hard on the boy. Maric and his unnamed Warden had been reckless, he thought, and now their son, possessed of both his parents, would have to grow up an orphan. He ran his thumb along the babe's soft cheek. "A sad fate you've inherited, young Alistair," he murmured. At his touch, the boy stirred. His eyes opened—he was old enough they had changed from baby blue to a warm hazel. Eamon sighed. Cailan had received his mother's eyes. Alistair's were the mirror of Maric's. This would be difficult.

"I understand choosing to raise him away from court," Eamon said. "But you do not mean to acknowledge him at all?"

Maric gave Eamon a sad smile. "Would he truly be better off in any way if I did? Would Cailan?" It was a rhetorical question. "I won't command you to take him, Eamon," Maric said. "I hope _we_ are still brothers, but this son is no blood relation of yours, and if you do take him, you will see less of Cailan." He held out his arms again, and Eamon handed the king back his second son. "For better or worse," Maric said softly, gazing down at Alistair, "there is very little of his mother in him, and I don't believe that will change much. If you ever brought him to Denerim, or if Cailan and I came to Castle Redcliffe with any of the court, the hopes his mother and I have for him might come to nothing after all."

He looked up at Eamon then, his gaze desperate. "But I want him safe. I want him as happy as he can be, considering. I want him free. So, I'm being selfish, Eamon, even though I'm aware that if you take him, you may be taking on my dishonor as your own."

Eamon grimaced. It was true, he thought. If he took Alistair into his own household and kept his true parentage a secret, there would be those who claimed he was the boy's father, even though he was notoriously careful in his own assignations. Rowan had used to tease him about it, say that he could sap the romance from any situation. Teagan still did.

But here was his king, his brother by law and the father of his nephew, asking him to protect both of his sons. Eamon's duty was clear—to Ferelden, to the Maker, and to his own conscience. Eamon looked up at Maric. "If he is to achieve the hopes you have for him and I do not take him, where else is he to go?" he asked simply. To a monastery or a Chantry orphanage, perhaps, but there was no guarantee that if the boy grew up in such a place he would not some day be discovered. Maric could send the child with the Warden, out of Ferelden to the Free Marches or beyond, but already Eamon saw Maric was not capable of giving his son up. Not entirely. He would want to know that Alistair was safe, well cared for, happy. "You will not send him to Gwaren," Eamon guessed.

"No," Maric said. A wall behind his eyes told Eamon that he'd guessed right. Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir of Gwaren had always been a closer confidant to the king than Eamon, elevated to the nobility and gifted the teyrnir by Maric himself as thanks for his leadership and heroism defeating the Orlesians. Loghain was Maric's top general and best advisor, but as long as Eamon could remember, Loghain had conspicuously kept away from the king's personal life—out of professionalism, perhaps, or something else. As often as Loghain was at court, especially since Rowan's death, Cailan barely knew him.

"I will take Alistair," Eamon said.

Such a mix of grief and relief crossed Maric's face then that Eamon had to look away again as the king handed the child back to him. "I can never thank you enough. Please—you'll tell me how he does?"

"You're my brother, Maric," Eamon promised. "I'll tell you how he does."

In Eamon's arms, Alistair laughed suddenly. He smiled up at Eamon, and Eamon couldn't help softening a little. He had just accepted a great deal of trouble, he knew . . . but Alistair was a charming child. He extended his finger, and the boy wrapped his fist around it in a surprisingly strong grip.

"I'll get you the rest of the milk," Duncan said.

"And I'll see about a wet nurse first thing in the morning," Eamon promised. "There are two women in the village, I believe—and a servant at the castle about to give birth, one of the undercooks. It's possible that I can bribe her to claim she's borne twins; no one will look too closely at a servant's child. She has another daughter, a little younger than Cailan, who might be a good sister to the boy."

"Who fathered this woman's child?" Duncan wanted to know.

"A no-account younger son of one of the southern banns, I think," Eamon answered. "A visitor to the castle. A wastrel, obviously, but charming enough in his way that the girl has been inconvenienced. Her husband died of a fever last year, and she's been on her own ever since. She'll welcome some extra gold."

"I'll see you receive it to give to her," Maric promised. "It would be good for Alistair to find a family, if he can."

Eamon nodded. He reached out and clasped Maric's hand. He took the skin of goat's milk Duncan offered. "I'll walk you back to Castle Redcliffe," the Warden said.

Eamon bowed. "Farewell, Maric."

Maric gave him a lopsided smile. "Take care of my son."

Eamon followed Duncan back out into the darkness. "I'll come by on occasion," Duncan told him. "Searching for recruits, begging for supplies. Grey Wardens have many excuses to travel. His mother will welcome news as much as his father will."

Eamon adjusted the child in his arms. "A child doesn't choose his parents," he observed. "But it seems to me that this one could have scarce chosen worse."

"It depends on how you look at it," Duncan said. "His parents are both good and brave and honorable people—and they love him. Most can't say that much."

Alistair cooed, and Eamon looked down at him. "He's certainly not bothered," he mused. "You have no idea of the grief and trouble you've just been born into, have you, little Alistair?"

Alistair laughed again, and seized Eamon's beard and tugged. "Ow! None of that, if you please," Eamon told him, disentangling the infant's fingers.

"Good luck with that," Duncan warned him. He was silent a moment. "This is breaking their hearts," he murmured then. "If Ma—" he broke off, looking nervously at the castle walls that had come into view ahead. It would be some time before the next guard shift was due, but it was better to be safe than sorry when anyone could be up and about. "If his father were not who he was," Duncan corrected himself in an undertone, "or his mother were not who she was, either of them would have kept him, and gladly. In that respect, I guess he is an unlucky child." He frowned. "I worry about him."

"Life is rarely kind to bastards," Eamon observed. "But if I can arrange it, Alistair will have more of a chance than most."

Duncan stopped walking, and Eamon halted as well, turning to face the young man. "He says you're a good man," Duncan said abruptly. "Good to your people and true to your word. I haven't known many noblemen you could say that for, but he's different, and he'd never leave Alistair with you if you weren't too." Duncan shifted in the darkness. "Don't disappoint him," he said finally. "He just gave you what he believes is the most important job in Ferelden, and there's a few different ways he could even be right."

Eamon went cold, and he shivered. In his arms, Alistair, sensing his sudden anxiety, stopped smiling and began to frown. Eamon looked down at the child. It was true, he knew: every complication Alistair represented was his to deal with now. He was responsible for guarding Alistair against those who would hurt him or use him as his father's son. He was responsible for guarding Cailan against any threat to his rule Alistair could one day represent—intentional or otherwise. More simply, he was responsible for the welfare of this small human being.

Eamon knew himself. He was a man most comfortable with figures, with fields, the planning of farms, with the intricacies of policy. He was an indifferent brother at best and a miserable lover. He had not yet wed and was dreading the day he had to do so. Yet here he was, guardian to this infant. He suddenly felt ill, and looked up at Duncan.

The young Grey Warden seemed to catch the drift of Eamon's thoughts. His broad face twisted into something like a smile in the darkness, and he reached out and clasped Eamon's shoulder. "Good luck, Arl Eamon," he said, and faded away into the night.

* * *

**A/N: If you've read the first collection of this series, welcome back to my chronological series of one-shots about the lives of ten characters in the Dragon Age universe—less of a story and more of a symphony, featuring many different instruments, each with their own melody. If this is the first story you've started reading, welcome. This is the second volume of the series, but you can start here as well as anywhere. I didn't group all of these together mostly because a single fic would have two hundred-plus chapters, but also because each volume of this series has its own sort of amorphous focus. The first volume, 9:01–9:10, introduces six of the characters and has the first experiences of childhood for the oldest of them, while this volume, 9:11–9:15, finishes introducing the other four and begins to get into childhoods proper. **

**Now, I follow canon fairly closely—sometimes, as you can see, borrowing from expanded universe material like **_**The Stolen Throne**_**—but sometimes canon interferes with the story I want to tell, and I abandon it. I'll list AU elements at the beginning of every chapter along with the character tags and pairings, but for this part of the series, this is what you need to know: **

**\- Andvar Tethras dies when his son, Varric, is ten instead of when he is two. **

**\- Ilsa Tethras is not an alcoholic.**

**\- Cullen Rutherford was born in 9:05 Dragon instead of 9:11, making him some six years older than the wiki estimates. I made this decision because, in all three games, Cullen is animated to look much older than he is speculated to be, and in addition, I found it unbelievable that Meredith would make a twenty-year-old Templar of only two years' experience a captain, as would be the case in the first act of **_**DA2**_** if Cullen were actually born in 9:11. **

**\- Cullen is the third-born child in his family instead of the second-born, making his brother Branson his elder as well as Mia. I changed this for better conformity with quasi-medieval or Renaissance family norms for someone in Cullen's social class; as the second-born son, he would have more freedom to choose his own career than he would as the eldest son. **

**\- While potential-Warden Brosca's father did go to the surface to try to make his fortune, abandoning Kalah, for the purposes of this story, he was Mining Caste, not casteless like Kalah herself, and Kalah's relationship with him, like her relationship with Rica's father, was orchestrated in an attempt to raise herself up. **

**\- Finally, one that may not actually be AU due to Danarius's history of lying and generally being an awful person: Fenris is not from Seheron, though he picks up Qunlat due to geographic proximity and factors that will become clear later on. In this story, Leto, the elf that later becomes Fenris, was born and lived the first twelve of his life in Ventus (or Qarinus), just south of Seheron and across the channel.**

**Anyway, this story is weird. I don't anticipate a lot of response (the first one hasn't received much). There's no continuous plot and very little shipping, and the truth is that it's ONLY rated M for safety for some graphic scenes of childbirth and wartime violence in two of the later chapters. But if you enjoy the fic, or have some suggestions on presentation, or have anything to say at all about it, I'd love to hear from you. **

**Best Always,**

**LMSharp**


	2. Varric: The Head of House Tethras

**Characters: **Varric Tethras, Bartrand Tethras, Ilsa Tethras, OMC Havard Striggot, OFC Angie

**Pairings:** None

**AU Elements: **Andvar Tethras dies nine years later than specified on the wiki. Ilsa Tethras is not an alcoholic.

* * *

**9:11 Dragon**

**Kirkwall**

Varric tugged his tunic down. He examined the front. Wrinkled, of course, but that would sort itself out in fifteen minutes on. There was a weird stain on the left sleeve, that, after smelling, Varric decided was probably the special fish sauce Sally sold down on the docks. If his mother wasn't looking for it, she wouldn't see it, and she was almost never looking.

The Chantry bells rang out the second hour of the morning, which meant he had an hour and a half before today's tutor showed. He'd make sure he was back before then; he actually liked geography and mathematics, much more than dwarven history, music, or Warrior Crista's lessons, anyway. But the kids back on their old street liked to learn too, and he'd promised to smuggle Briny and Newall a new book each and to tell Rogett, Elen, and Topsy the ending to the story he'd started making up last week.

This time of morning, the study should be clear. When Varric didn't see them at the dining room table, he guessed that Father and Bartrand were probably already off to the Guild square uptown. Mother would be upstairs at her table, working on one of her tapestries or making a shopping list. She never went into Father's study. Varric snagged an apple out of the bowl on the dining table, and hung a right toward the study.

He opened the door.

"Don't come in here!"

Varric jumped at the sound of Bartrand's voice. He frowned. "Bartrand?"

"Varric?" came Bartrand's voice again. "Get out of here. Go find Mother. Keep her out of here."

Varric was confused. Bartrand sounded angry, even panicked. "Mother never comes into Father's study. Bartrand, what's going on in there?" He pushed the door open wider.

"Don't!"

Then he saw.

Father was slumped over his big, oakwood desk. His gray eyes were wide open and staring, but they were glassy and vacant. Empty. His face was bone white. And the desk, the papers, the books were all a horrible brown-red. The smell hit Varric: metallic and sour.

"Father?" he whispered.

Bartrand was standing beside the desk, eyes wide, in his business clothes. He turned and saw Varric.

"Damn you, Varric, can't you ever do as you're told?! I told you to stay out of here! Get away!"

"But Father—is he—?"

"Yes!" Bartrand snapped. His eyes moved back to that horrible desk, like they couldn't look away. "I think so. I just walked in here. He was late; I thought he'd gotten drunk and fallen asleep at his desk again. I didn't know he . . ." abruptly, he looked back at Varric. He lurched across the room, seized Varric by the shoulder, and half-shoved, half-threw him out of Father's study. "Just stay out! Get Mother! Tell her—"

"What?" Varric demanded. "Tell her what, Bartrand?" Somewhere far away, he noticed that he sounded just like Bartrand now, angry and panicked, and he also noted that he hated that there was any situation ever in which he could conceivably sound or act anything at all like his older brother.

"I don't know!" Bartrand yelled. "Something. I don't—I have to get the guard, the Guild, an undertaker . . ."

He was talking to himself now, and Varric stumbled back down the hall. He didn't see any of the rest of the house as he tripped up the stairs toward his parents' room and fell into their door.

Mother _was_ sitting at her work table, her latest tapestry stretched over her knees. This one was a landscape, the Merchant's Quarter of Orzammar as seen from the front gates, she'd said, with dwarven names and stories sewn in runes all around it. The round, gold spectacles Mother had taken to wearing while she worked in the last two years were perched upon her nose, and the morning light from the window flashed off of them, sending reflected light dancing across the room when she moved. Her light brown hair, gray at the temples and at the nape of her neck, was swept back into its usual low knot, arranged neatly under her russet cap. She looked up when Varric entered, brown eyes widening when she saw him. "What's happened?" she asked, thrusting her needle deftly through the fabric and setting her work aside at once.

Varric stared at his mother. Suddenly, there was a lump in his throat and in his stomach both at once, and his eyes were hot and stinging. "Mother, I—"

She opened her arms, and Varric ran to her like he hadn't done in years. She wrapped him up in her arms, and she smelled like cinnamon and her favorite Rivaini tea, and Varric was crying. "Varric," she was saying, sounding concerned. "Darling, what's happened?"

"Father—he—Mother," Varric closed his eyes tightly, swallowed hard, and drew back. He squeezed his mother's shoulders and looked into her face. "Father's dead," he said.

* * *

TWO WEEKS LATER

Varric sat at the dining room table. He had a book in front of him—Jacquard's _Économie_—but he wasn't reading it. Bartrand had no more idea of how fast he could read than Father had. Varric thought Mother knew, but she'd never said, just let him read three times as quickly as his tutors thought he was and use the extra time however he wanted, when Father or Bartrand would have stopped him and given him something boring or stupid to do.

Before, he'd used it to read books Father, Bartrand, and his tutors didn't know about. Or snuck off to see the friends they didn't approve of. Or just to bum around Kirkwall, seeing what he could see. Now, though, he was watching the men who came to meet with Bartrand.

They'd swooped in at the wake and had been hovering ever since, like vultures. They kissed Mother's cheek, shook Bartrand's hand, clapped Varric on the back and talked all about the good times they had had with Andvar. He was a good man, they said, when every one of them knew better. They would laugh fake laughs and smile smiles that didn't reach their eyes, but eventually they would get to the point. "Such a sad affair," they'd tell Bartrand. "I don't understand how Andvar could leave you all like this! A beautiful woman like Ilsa, a bright kid like your brother there. I'm sure he knew you would take good care of them, Master Bartrand; you've got a lot of promise. Still, you're young to take on all Andvar's business. If you want, I could help you out, the first year or so, just till you've got your feet under you . . ."

Varric was sure one of them had killed his father.

Bartrand didn't believe him. Mother didn't say so, but she didn't either. Father had been found in his own study, with his own bloody dagger gripped so tightly in his hand they had to pry it out. None of the servants had reported any weird noises in the night or early morning before he'd been found. None of the locks had been forced. No one had seen anyone hanging around the house. All the evidence was that Andvar had stabbed himself, the coroner said. He was an unhappy man, a drinker, embittered by years of exile from Orzammar brought on by his own reckless, criminal behavior. He had lost nobility, status, and the afterlife, both for himself and for his house. It made sense that he'd waited until his eldest was old enough to take care of his family—he'd had that much decency at least—then bowed out as quietly as he could.

Except it didn't make sense, because Varric knew that Father hadn't had enough decency to ever do more than feel sorry for his mistakes, never to actually change things, and he'd never done anything quietly in his life. If he had really wanted to kill himself, he would have done it years ago, and it wouldn't have mattered that they hadn't made it out of Lowtown yet or Bartrand was still too young to take over the family business. Andvar wouldn't have cared about any of it, and he probably would have hung himself in the middle of the living room, not stabbed himself to death in his study, which no one else was ever _supposed_ to go into—though Bartrand and Varric both did.

Varric tugged on the gold chain Mother had given him after Father's funeral. Father had used to wear it, and it was too big for Varric. It hung down past the middle of his skinny, ten-year-old chest. It looked ridiculous. Varric didn't know why he wore it. But he hadn't taken it off since the funeral. He wore it beneath his shirt, usually, and the uncomfortable weight of it reminded him of Father.

Andvar could have eaten any of the vultures hovering around Bartrand alive, and he probably had. Bartrand really couldn't handle them as well. He was trying. The problem was, they _did_ need them. Bartrand couldn't tell them to get lost. He needed their connections, their goods, their experience. But before, Father had always told him what was true and what was an exaggeration or an outright lie; who could be trusted, at least a little; and who would stab them in the back, given the chance. Now, all Bartrand had was his own gut instinct.

And Varric.

Bartrand didn't know it yet. He thought Varric was too young to help him, but Varric had eyes. He saw the groups the businessmen who came to the house divided into. He saw who looked at whom, filed away which men were just trying to cheat Bartrand on a business deal (more or less harmless) and which ones wanted to carve up or absorb _their_ business. He listened to who the men's suppliers were, which ones they had in common, and who had unique sources. He cataloged the quality and origins of their clothes—everything was a clue about who traded where and how they did there. He also noticed the weapons—which daggers were ornamental, never drawn from their sheathes, and which were well oiled and well used.

The best thing was that almost all the men who came to the house thought he was as young and stupid as Bartrand did. Oh, they noticed how he talked, commented on it like he was some performing lion in an Orlesian menagerie. They asked him about his lessons and told him he was smart for his age—always "for his age," because there was no way he could be as smart as they were. He was just a kid.

Havard Striggot was the only one of them in the house right now. Striggot owned a warehouse down on the docks that Father had stored some of his goods in. He had come, like a lot of them, so Bartrand could resign the business contracts Striggot had had with Andvar, and like a lot of them, Striggot had been trying to negotiate more favorable terms.

Striggot's line was that taxes had increased, so in order to maintain profit margins, he had to charge more for Bartrand to store goods in his warehouse. It might even be true; Varric wasn't entirely sure. He knew that, internationally, things had changed a lot in the past few years. Orlais, one of Kirkwall's best trading partners, _had_ gone into a bit of a tailspin since the Fereldans had finally kicked them out of the country and they'd lost the province. On the other hand, Varric had heard his father and brother say that with Orlais unable to pressure the smaller nations—Nevarra, Antiva, and Rivain, not to mention the Imperium—more trade from _those_ places had started to flow in. And Ferelden was in the middle of an economic boom.

With more trade from Tevinter and Ferelden, Striggot might be dealing with more regulation on the docks—the viscount and the guard cracking down on smuggling and contraband. Rents might have gone up too; more traders would be looking for semipermanent bases. But did Striggot need as much more from Bartrand as he was asking?

_Probably not_.

What would Father have done? Shopped around for alternative storage places, maybe gone to the docks and let himself be seen asking about buying his own facility. They'd been doing well lately. Maybe they could afford it, and Striggot wouldn't know one way or the other. Then Father would have invited Striggot out for drinks, played on how important long-term business relationships were. Striggot would be feeling vulnerable, and Father would argue him down to a quarter of his asked-for increase or less, with a few extra perks into the bargain.

But Bartrand was just blustering. He was threatening to take his business elsewhere—that was right, but it was too early, and he was too angry about it, too desperate-sounding. His voice carried out into the hallway as the meeting ended, and when the two of them walked out, Varric could tell from the way Striggot was standing and the way the corners of his mouth looked that he wasn't feeling threatened. He knew Bartrand didn't actually know where else they would go.

Striggot bowed—not as low as he would have done to Father. "Take some time to think about it, Master Bartrand—" Not ser or Serah Tethras or Mister Tethras or even Master Tethras—"As I said, I can give you the same price, for a reduced share of the warehouse or in the week, but I must insist on an additional five gold per week to maintain your current terms. Normally, of course, I would ask for your answer by the end of the week. Whether we can come to agreeable terms or not, I must fill the space. In deference to your grief, I'll give you two."

Bartrand snorted. "How generous. I'll consider your offer. While I do, why don't you consider how likely you are to find anyone else to lease as much of your warehouse as regularly as our enterprises?" That was good, Varric thought. Something flickered in Striggot's face. He knew it too. He turned on his heel and headed for the door, past Varric. Varric shot him a bright smile over _Économie_, and Striggot slowed a half-stride, probably wondering how much of the conversation Varric had heard. Varric gave nothing away, and Striggot left the house.

Bartrand blew down the corridor a moment later. When he saw Varric, his face turned puce purple and his still-patchy whiskers seemed to bristle. "You know how tacky it is to eavesdrop, brother?" he snapped.

"Eavesdrop?" Varric repeated. "I'm hurt, Bartrand. You think I'd be stupid enough to eavesdrop out here where anyone could see me? Anyway, you can't hear one word in five people say in the sitting room from here, and I'm much more involved in my studies."

Bartrand snorted again. It was one of his favorite modes of expression. Sometimes Varric thought of a dragon when Bartrand did that. Bartrand probably wished he could breathe fire.

He crossed over to Varric, snatched _Économie_ away, and looked at the title. "Weak, as cover goes," he sneered. "Your tutors won't be touching this for five years. What, you grab the first big book you saw on Father's shelves?"

Varric sighed. "Sure. You got me."

Bartrand shoved the book back at him. "Put it back where you found it and go work on your actual lessons. In _your _room. The den. Sitting room's free now. Anywhere but here. I don't want to see you until supper. Angie!" he roared.

Their cook and housekeeper bustled out of the kitchen. "Yes, ser," she said, bobbing a curtsey.

"Supper in an hour, and nothing like the drek you served my mother yesterday."

Angie bobbed again. "I've been working all day on a lovely stew—"

"I don't want to hear about it," Bartrand snapped. "I want to eat it! I'll be in Fath—I'll be in the study. Fetch me when it's ready, and mind you aren't a minute late!" He turned on his heel and stormed off down the hall, leaving Angie looking flushed and resentful.

Varric stood and went to her. "Don't pay attention to him, Ange," he told her. "Mother liked the chicken yesterday, and so did I. Bartrand's just being an ass. You know that."

Angie smiled, but didn't look at him. She looked tired, and her lip shook. "He's a boy trying to fill a man's place. We all see how hard it is for him, but still. We'd be a bit more help if he wouldn't bellow at us for trying. Sometimes I just don't know."

Varric shrugged. "Any house, inn, or restaurant in Hightown would be lucky to have you if you wanted to bail," he said. "and I'd still come to visit, but you'd sure make _me_ sad if you left."

Angie looked at him then, reached out, and gave him a hug. "Well. We wouldn't want that, would we, Master Varric? You and your sweet mother make my job worth doing. Always have, even before the troubles. But I'd better get back to work."

"And I'd better let you," Varric agreed. "If I stay any longer, that smell from the kitchen just might make me charge right in there and eat everything up before Bartrand gets any at all." He arched an eyebrow at Angie. "You think I could get away with it?"

His timing was perfect. She laughed and waved him off, and Varric folded _Économie_ under his arm and went upstairs to Mother's room.

She was sitting at her work table, just like always, but like she had been every day for the past two weeks, she wasn't doing any work. Just sitting, all in black, staring out the window, hands folded on her lap. Silent.

"Hello, Mother," Varric said, forcing cheer into his voice.

She didn't answer. Didn't even look at him. But when Varric sat at her feet, her hand came to rest on his hair for a moment, and Varric leaned back into the touch. He reached up to the table and exchanged Jacquard for the book sitting there, Shaper Yoren's _The Littlest Nug Wrangler and Other Stories_. "Do you want me to read to you?"

Mother just squeezed his shoulder, and Varric opened the leather cover of the book and started to read.

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	3. Leto: A Pretty Child

**Author's PSA: I normally do not write stories featuring themes of sexual violence or molestation. I find it worse than tasteless to exploit the trauma of millions of individuals in order to add interest to a plot. What's included in these stories is not done in that spirit but in a spirit of advocacy. I want Leto's story to give voice to the legions that have been exploited in slavery over the course of human history and remain so even to this day, and shine a light on the abuse many boys and men experience but never report or feel accepted enough to process. I have been incredibly fortunate never to have been the victim of sexual violence or exploitation, but the people I hold the dearest have outpaced the statistics. My heart has broken for their experiences, and more than once, and it breaks for anyone who has ever been in Leto's position—without the advocates, whimsical as they may be, that he finds here.**

* * *

**Characters: **Varania, OMC Master Bellisti, Leto, OFC Sulin. Reference to other catalysts and actors in the lives of these characters, but they don't make appearances.

**Pairings: **None

**AU Elements: **This may not be actually AU, as it's established Danarius is a liar, but young Leto lives in Ventus, across the channel from Seheron and not actually on it.

* * *

**9:11 Dragon**

**Ventus, The Tevinter Imperium**

VARANIA

Varania did not like the way Rene Valentius looked at her brother. He was an important guest of the master's, a powerful and influential free merchant from Minrathous who sold textiles and dabbled in wineries, with contacts and patrons in the Circles and the Magisterium. He was staying with the master to negotiate a bargain for use of both the fine cotton and use of the dye plants they grew here. Master Bellisti's plantation was small, and an association with someone like Rene Valentius could mean great things for him and the entire household. Varania knew how much the master wanted to please Rene Valentius while he was staying with them.

But she _did not like_ the way he looked at her brother.

Leto was old enough he was useful at many kinds of work now. Of course, he'd been running errands for Mother and helping in small ways in the kitchen since he was four, but now he cleaned chimneys. He picked the vegetables in the garden for Cookie, fed the pigs and chickens, and four months ago, Daro had assigned him to help the field children clean the cotton after harvest. He was a good worker—quick, quiet, and strong—but that was the problem, because Cookie had noticed, and sometimes sent him out with the plates or pitchers at supper, and neither Mistress or Mistress Aster had complained about being served by a dirty little scruff boy. In fact, in the last six weeks or so, Mistress had started sending Leto to clean whole rooms in the house on his own, so it was clean that much faster. Senna and Risa didn't mind; they liked Leto.

But when Leto brought the plates to the master's table, Rene Valentius's eyes lingered on him. Varania could see from the doorway to the kitchen, where she ate with the other house slaves. He called for Leto to refill his glass before it was even half empty, Leto had said. The one time Leto had been in Valentius's room while he was there, Leto had come back to the kitchen looking pale. When Cookie had asked, Leto had said that Valentius had been kind to him. He had given Leto two slices of some candied orange, touched his hair, patted his shoulder, and said he was a good worker. But after that, Leto had been quicker to clean common rooms Mistress sent him to and slower to clean the bedrooms, Senna said. He was so careful, the way he arranged to always be in the rooms when they were most likely to be empty, when the Bellistis and their guest would be elsewhere. He walked away too fast from the master's table in the evenings, and once, Varania and Leto had been going back to the quarters they shared with Mother and had seen Valentius down the corridor, and Leto had begged Varania to wait until Valentius had gone by.

And Rene Valentius kept watching Leto.

Mother had developed a little line between her eyebrows whenever she looked at Leto. She hugged him more often but brushed the clothes she made for him less.

Varania knew what was happening. Or what could happen, anyway. What Rene Valentius wanted to happen. Varania had been lucky so far. A drunk party guest had smacked her rear last year, but no one had ever tried to do anything worse than that. No one had wanted to.

Other slaves weren't so lucky. All the field girls tried to hide when Master Bellisti's brother came to visit. The overseers that came and went weren't always kind. Girls sent on errands to the city market sometimes came back late, bruised or dirty. Isla and three field women had all had human babies, when the men they loved lived in the field houses too, or on other plantations nearby.

When Leto had been born, Mother had seen his ears and cried. Varania had been a child then, and she had been confused about why Mother would do that, because Mother hadn't seemed sad at the time. Now she knew.

Varania didn't know what Rene Valentius wanted with an eight-year-old boy, but Peg had told her that some men did like boys. What Varania did know was that she couldn't take care of Leto this time like she had sometimes been able to take care of him when he was younger. She was in town for too much of every day now.

Last year, Master Bellisti had finally managed to apprentice her to Dottore, an herbalist that worked out of the market. He barely had more magic than she did, barely earned enough gold to keep himself free and keep up his small house. So Master Bellisti was giving him a stipend every month to train Varania, and in return, all the profits Dottore made off of the unguents, powders, and potions Varania created in his service went back to Master Bellisti.

Dottore was not a great teacher. He was terse and impatient. His instructions were confused and confusing. He was aging and often ached, and he hated that Master Bellisti had probably saved him from starving or selling himself into slavery, and hated more that more people had begun coming to his stall at the market since he had gotten some help with the business. But he didn't hit Varania like Mistress Aster had. She could handle his ill temper and being called "wench," "clumsy oaf," "chit," and "girl." He was harmless, and she was learning.

She walked to Dottore's home off the market just after dawn every morning six days a week and came back to the Bellistis just in time for supper. She spent her evenings and the one day she had back at the plantation laundering and sewing with Mother. She heard about Leto from Mother, from the other slaves, but she was with him maybe an hour each day when both of them were awake. She couldn't help him at all the rest of the time.

Or could she?

As Varania watched and worried, it occurred to her that maybe she could help. She couldn't be with Leto, but maybe she could say something. Aside from Mistress Aster, she was the only mage in Master Bellisti's household. That was worth something. The master had spent gold to train her—more than he had gotten back at first, but four months ago, Varania had finally brought enough home that he broke even, and last month, she had brought back a return. A small one, yes, but as she continued to learn, it would grow. Her work was worth the money spent on her. Maybe he would listen if she asked him for something.

It took Varania five days to work up the nerve to go to the master after she'd thought of it, but at last, the next day she had on the plantation, she went to his library, where he often spent the mornings alone going over the accounts.

She was too afraid to do more than stand in the doorway until he noticed her. The sun was behind him this time of day, and so his face was dark and shadowed. Master Bellisti wasn't bad, as far as human masters went. He was not kind; he was a businessman. He sold away slaves he didn't need, whether or not they had families. He was not always careful about who he brought in to watch the field workers, and he had married Mistress and brought her mother to live in his house. But they were the cruel ones. Master could be sharp enough. Sometimes he was difficult to please. But he had never switched a child or ordered anyone whipped. When he wanted to discipline a slave, he reprimanded them in front of the others and saw them assigned to less important or more unpleasant duties for a while. He ordered healers when the slaves were sick, sent midwives to birth their babies, gave them two new sets of clothes each year, and let them go into the city once a week to hear the Chant, with a pass. The men and women slaves who loved slaves on other plantations and in other houses in the city could visit on the way back.

Still, Varania shook as she stood in the doorway. He was so big and dark, silhouetted against the sun, seated at his desk, at least half a head taller than any elf she knew, and much broader. His black-and-gray hair fell importantly to his shoulders, and his black eyes gave nothing away. Ever.

Finally, he looked up and saw her. "Varania. Do you have a message for me? Does my wife need me?"

Varania shook her head. "I—" Her face grew hot, and she twisted her hands in her apron so hard the fabric chafed.

"What do you need, child?" Master asked.

"Leto."

Her voice came out so soft that at first, he didn't hear her. "What? Come in, child. Stop trembling like a mouse."

Varania walked forward. Her bare feet touched the fine horsehair rug Master had in the library. She curled her toes, pushing individual hairs aside, and looked down at her hands, twisting, still twisting in her apron. She licked her lips. "Leto," she said again. She was still quiet, but her voice at least came out right this time.

Master frowned. "What about him? He's your younger brother, isn't he? Sulin's son?"

Varania nodded. "Yes, sir. I—Serah Valentius, he's been—" she trailed off.

From underneath her fringe and lashes, Varania saw Master put down his pen and steeple his hands over the desk. He understood at once. "Has your brother told you that my guest has done anything untoward?" His voice was low and serious.

Varania shook her head. "No, sir. Nothing's happened yet, sir. I don't think." She paused. "But Leto's afraid. Trying to avoid Serah Valentius. I'm not the only one who's noticed it. Mother's worried, and Cookie and Senna have both said something too. I don't want—" she twisted her apron so hard that it tore. "I'm sorry, sir," she whispered. "He's just a boy. And he's my brother."

She dared to look up then. She wanted to apologize, to run away, back to Mother or the kitchens, but she stayed, waiting.

Master sighed, deeply. "Beauty is not a blessing for a slave," he observed. "You're fortunate that way, Varania. And in others."

Varania swallowed and looked down again. She knew she wasn't growing up pretty like Mother, but he didn't have to say it like that, she thought. She knew her face was long and bony, even for an elf's, and that her red hair was like straw. She knew her body and limbs were all still stick-thin, even though she had turned thirteen this year, and that her dresses hung on her like grain sacks. None of the boys ever winked at her in the market like they did at other girls. There was a boy she saw at the Chantry sometimes, with silk blond hair and sapphire eyes, a slave from the city. She loved to watch him, but he had never looked at her, not even once.

She was plain. She knew it, but Master didn't have to _say_ it. Except he was her master, and he could say whatever he wanted. And he was right. She knew that too. The pretty ones got noticed more. They got the better jobs, were bought by richer masters and lived in more comfortable houses, but the pretty ones got as much trouble or more being pretty as they got help from it. So she knew she should be grateful she wasn't pretty like Mother, and sometimes she was. But she hated Master a little, too, for saying so.

"Your brother does not share your gifts," Master said, and there was a dry note in his voice now. "For better or for worse, he is more like your mother, is he not? In kind and in looks. Beautiful, even for an elf. I believe my wife and daughter have both taken notice of him before for this, and not always to his benefit."

Varania remembered that day too. She remembered how her brother, just five years old, had bravely stood up to Little Xenia—a lying, spoiled brat in her mother's image—and demanded Mistress only punish him in her anger and leave Varania alone. And they had. Dain had whipped Leto bloody. He had had the bruises for weeks.

Varania swallowed back the memories of rage and helplessness and kept her eyes down. "Leto's grown since then," she said. "He's a good boy now." _He was a good boy the_n.

Master chuckled, without amusement, and Varania knew he saw right through her attempt to speak for her brother. "So, if I understand you right, I should shelter your brother, a boy who once contradicted and gave orders to freewomen in my own family, from a guest in my house who has not as of yet done anything to him, on the word of a slave."

Varania's heart sank to her gut. He wasn't going to help. He would punish her for asking him, and since she had come to the master first, there would be no way to work with Mother and the others to hide Leto until Rene Valentius went away. The master would notice and realize what had happened, now that she had come to him. She dropped a curtsy. "I'm sorry, Master," she said softly. "I should return to my duties."

"Stay a moment, Varania," Master commanded her. Varania stopped. Her face was hot, and her breath was coming too quickly. "Andraste, girl, you're afraid of me, aren't you?" he observed. "Have I given you cause for that?"

Varania opened her mouth to answer, but he went on without letting her speak.

"I've heard rumors of Rene's predilections," he told her. "It may be true that there is some cause for concern. And your brother _is_ a good servant. Now. Smart for his age and a hard worker, in addition to Sulin's looks. As it happens, Aster and my wife have been pestering me to take on a page. I had not thought to oblige them; page boys are generally more trouble than they're worth. But it seems they'll get their way after all. Go and send your brother to me, child. It appears I have a place for him."

Varania was overwhelmed. She curtsied again, hastily. "Thank you, ser!" she gasped past the expanding bubble of happy disbelief in her chest. "He'll be so pleased—it's an honor—I—thank you! For Leto and my mother, for our entire family! Thank you!"

"Yes, you're welcome. Go," Master said.

And she did.

* * *

LETO

Leto had no idea why Master Bellisti had suddenly decided he wanted a page. Master wasn't like Mistress or Miss Xenia. He didn't like fancy clothes or parties or slaves attending him. He called it "a lot of fuss and trouble." All he cared about was money and work, and he had always done a lot of things for himself that Leto or the others would do for Mistress or her mother or her daughter or any special guest, ignoring anything Mistress said about his "consequence," or telling her that staying efficient was how he bought her hers.

Not that Leto was complaining. He knew what it meant, to be the master's page. No more would he have to share a bed with Mother or Verry in their small room in the big house slave quarters. He would have his own small bed, a whole room to himself, right next to the master's, so he could serve Master Bellisti right when he got up and right before bed. He would get special clothes, better ones, because he would have to go where Master Bellisti went and see all his friends and business associates and represent Master Bellisti well. And as someone representing Master Bellisti, no one could touch or hurt him without insulting the master. He would be on Master Bellisti's business or with Master Bellisti every minute of every day—and the master wasn't kind, but he was fair. Anyway, he wasn't cruel. He never ordered any of the slaves beaten, and none of the women whispered about him like they whispered about his brother, when he came to visit.

Verry had just about beamed when she came and told him to go see the master, and when he came back to their room to tell Mother to make him a suit for his new job. Mother was happy too. Leto could tell. It was an honor.

Master Bellisti might be hard to please. He might be sharp or a little impatient. But he wouldn't hurt Leto.

And Master Valentius would probably leave the master's page alone.

It was two days after Master Bellisti had decided to make Leto his page. Mother had finished his uniform, so today was Leto's first day at his new job. It was dawn. Varania had already started for the market, but Master Bellisti wouldn't be up for an hour or two yet, and when he woke, Leto would be there with his boots, already shined, and his clothes, already brushed.

Mother bent down in front of him. She straightened his jacket and pushed his hair back from his face. "There you are, Leto," she said. "You look just as you should."

"I won't see you as much now, will I?" he asked.

"Do you need to?" she asked him. Her eyes were soft. "You're a fine, strong boy now, Leto. You'll be a man before too long. You're ready for your own job, like your sister. You'll see me at mealtimes, when Master Bellisti isn't away, and he doesn't travel often. We'll go to the Chantry together on rest days, just like always." She patted his shoulders one more time and stood. "Work hard. Be good. I'm proud of you."

Leto swallowed. He wanted to say something back to her, he thought, but the words were stuck in his throat. So he just nodded, wiped the sweat on his hands on the back of his trousers, and started for the door.

Mother called after him before he reached it. "Leto?"

He stopped and looked back at her.

"Master Bellisti is being kind to you," she said quietly. "Take advantage of it when the humans are kind. A little kindness can carry people like you and me a long way, with the Maker's favor, and if we're careful and clever. It can help later, when the humans aren't so kind. Do you understand?"

She looked very serious. Leto didn't understand. Not entirely. But it seemed so important to her that he nodded again. "I'll remember," he told her.

It wasn't a lie, he told himself as he walked toward the part of the house where Master Bellisti and his family lived. He would remember. He would remember, and he would work out what she meant later. He was clever, he knew he was, and he was learning to be careful. So he could figure out what it meant to take advantage of it when the humans were kind, probably.

Certainly he could take advantage of being made Master Bellisti's page, anyway.

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**A/N: That didn't come out how I thought it would, but I like it anyway. I like that there are just darker notes rather than outright darkness here. Of course, I think I just had Sulin sow a seed that will mature into all sorts of misery for her and for her family. But them's the breaks. **

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**LMSharp**


	4. Cullen: Rest Day

**Characters: **OFC Mother Imogen, Cullen Rutherford, OMC Titus Rutherford, OFC Theodora Rutherford, Mia Rutherford, Branson Rutherford, Rosalie Rutherford. Mentions of several other historical characters in a story within a story.

**Pairings: **Within Mia Rutherford's story within a story, Maferath/Andraste. Otherwise, none.

**AU Elements: **Cullen was born in 9:05 Dragon instead of 9:11 Dragon. He is the third child and second son instead of the second child and first son, making his brother Branson his elder as well as Mia.

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**9:12 Dragon**

**Honnleath, the Arling of Redcliffe, Ferelden**

"'How can we know You?'" Mother Imogen sang to the congregation. The morning sun streamed through the windows of the Chantry. Cullen stood with Father and Mother, with Mia, Branson, and Rosalie, and they sang the answer back to her with everyone else.

"'In the turning of the seasons, in life and death,  
In the empty space where our hearts  
Hunger for a forgotten face?'"

The Canticle of Trials was one of Cullen's favorites. When he heard it, he could really feel how the Maker loved all his children. He hadn't fought in any battles yet—not like his parents or some of the other old people in the village had—but he felt sure that whatever did happen when he grew up, he could face it. _Nothing can break me except your absence_. _Your name is etched into my every step. I will not forsake you, even if I forget myself. Though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the Light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure. What you have created, no one can tear asunder. _

Cullen smiled as the sound rose, up to the ceiling of the Chantry. It seemed too big for the building to hold. He knew the Honnleath Chantry was little, really, barely bigger than Mayor Calder's house. But he wondered if the Grand Cathedral in Val Royeaux would be able to swallow the sound any better. Or would it be even louder, with hundreds or even thousands more people there to raise the Chant to the Maker?

Could the Maker hear it? He had to. He was watching them now, Cullen knew it. Cullen hoped listening to them sing the Chant made the Maker as happy as he it made him.

"'I am not alone,'" they sang. "'Even  
As I stumble on the path  
With my eyes closed, yet I see  
The Light is here.'"

"'Draw your last breath, my friends,'" Mother Imogen finished.  
"'Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky.  
Rest at the Maker's right hand,  
And be Forgiven.'"

She raised a hand to bless them, and they all sat down as Sister Eugenie came up to give the sermon.

* * *

Rest days were the best days of the week, and not just because the whole village went to the Chantry to hear the Chant in the morning. On rest days, Mother made the best meals for them all to eat together. Father would come in from the pasture, leaving the sheep in the pen for a while longer, and he would listen to everything any of them had to say. None of them had to do any chores at all until after supper, and now he was big enough that Mother would let him leave the house alone, or even with Rosalie, and play outside or around the village until supper.

One of Cullen's favorite places to play was in the village square. There were all sorts of stone fences to climb on and walk down, and Rosalie liked to throw the seed Mistress Edwina kept in the basket next to the funny statue in the center of town for the birds.

Mistress Selma, a lady that sometimes did laundry with Mother by the lake, and Matthias, a boy several years older than Cullen, swore that the statue in the center of town was really a magical monster that had killed Matthias's father. But Mistress Selma was an old bat, and Matthias was a liar. He told everyone his father had been a mage too, when everyone knew the Templars kept the mages safe in the Circles of Magic, where they couldn't hurt anyone or be driven crazy by demons. Anyway, Cullen had never once seen that statue move. If it was a magical monster, it had stood completely still in the exact same place as long as he could remember. That meant it either wasn't a monster at all or that it was dead now. Mother and Father didn't warn them away from it. No one did.

Cullen threw another handful of seed around the statue, handed the seed basket off to Rosalie, and hopped up onto the low wall that half-circled the statue. With his arms outstretched to either side, he tried to keep his balance as he walked along the wall. He had first tried to do this when he was a very little boy, only four years old, and Mother or Mia had had to catch him every time as he tripped and fell off. Now he almost never fell, and he could even walk on his hands down the wall, or leap off of it and catch himself on the big arm of the statue before swinging to the ground.

"Look, Cullen!" Rosalie said quietly, pointing down at the ground. A goldfinch had joined the pigeons and doves around the statue. The afternoon light caught the yellow of its wings and the deep red around its face.

"Out the corner of your eye, Rosie," Cullen reminded her. "If you look straight on, the wild ones think you're hunting."

"I couldn't catch one of _them_," Rosalie scoffed. "Maybe one of the pigeons. They're fat and slow and stupid, but the little ones are too quick."

"You might have a net, though," Cullen pointed out. "Or a bow and arrow to shoot him with. _He_ doesn't know. He's so little he has to think everything wants to eat him."

The goldfinch hopped a little closer, black eyes bright and wary. A pigeon strutted out of his way, and he jerked his head down to eat a seed. Once! Twice!

"You're horrible," Rosalie told him. "Who'd want to eat a finch? No singing then. Anyway, they're _too_ small to eat."

Cullen looked at his little sister. "For you, maybe. Just about right for a cat or a hawk or an owl. And he doesn't know the difference."

Rosalie looked so sad then that Cullen was sorry he'd said it. He sighed, reached out, and squeezed her around the shoulders. "Cats and hawks and owls have to eat too," he said. "But they won't come here now." He paused, and caught Rosalie's eye. "They're scared of you too."

"Are not!" Rosie pouted, shoving out at him. But she seemed to feel a little better. The goldfinch flew away, and Rosalie put the basket back next to the statue. "Race you to the lake," she said, breaking away in a run.

Cullen started after her right away. "Little cheat!" he yelled. "No fair if you get a head start!"

The lake where Mother did the laundry and where boats sometimes went out to fish for perch, trout, and bream was shallow by the shore. There were lily pads across the surface, and frogs if you could catch them. In the summer, crickets sang in the reeds all day long. If Cullen liked any place better than the square, it was probably the lake. He'd found a special place last autumn, further up in the hills, an old dock that not a lot of the villagers used. It was quiet there. A good place to think, or just enjoy a fine day. He and Rosalie wouldn't race _there_. Then she could find him when he went there, and then _everybody_ would know. But it was fine just to play in the place Rosalie knew. They weren't to swim—not without Mia, Mother, or Father—but they could wade in the shallows and splash around, or skim rocks, or play knight with reeds they picked from the banks.

Cullen outran Rosie on the way. He was bigger and older than she was, after all. He'd grown a lot over the past year. He didn't think he'd been as small as _she_ was when _he_ was six in the first place, but all that meant was he was even faster. At first, passing her felt good. She'd cheated, and he was _still_ going to beat her. But then Cullen remembered how it felt when Branson beat _him_ just because he was bigger, and he slowed down. Not much. Not enough Rosie would notice, but enough that they reached the lake at the same time.

"I won! Ha!" Rosalie crowed, red-faced and panting.

Cullen scoffed. "Did not! It was a draw, silly, and only 'cause _you_ cheated."

"Not my fault you weren't listening and started late," Rosalie retorted. She stuck her tongue out at him. Cullen sighed, bent over like he wanted to rest his arms on his legs, then darted his hand down into the water to splash her.

Rosalie squealed, all angry and unable to do a thing about the fact that her skirt was soaked above the knee and there was a bit of pondweed coiled around her ankle. Anything, that is, except splash him back right away, which she did.

They splashed and played until they were tired and flopped, wet all through in a way Mother would surely scold them for later, on the bank. They lay together, happy now just to be quiet. Sometimes, Cullen thought, that was best of all: just being quiet with his brother or his sisters or a friend from the village. Someone he liked, anyway. People didn't always have to _talk_.

The sun was warm today, and as Rosalie wove her own little basket with the reeds and Cullen drew patterns in the dirt of the lake shore, he thought they might even dry off before supper.

* * *

Cullen still remembered when all six of them had slept together in the main room—the _only_ room, back then. Piling onto the big bed together had been warm and comfortable, especially in the winter, but there were knees and elbows everywhere, and Father, Branson, and Rosalie all _moved_ too much. So the summer Mia had turned eight, the neighbors had spent weeks helping Father and Mother build a new room onto the house.

The room Cullen shared with his brother and sisters now was small. There was just enough room for a small stove—because they didn't have the kitchen fire—and their own bed. Even with the stove, sometimes it wasn't as warm with just four of them as Cullen remembered it had been before. But there was more room to get away from Branson and Rosalie kicking and turning over, and Mia told a story every night, so it all evened out.

Rosalie was all right, as far as little sisters went, but as far as Cullen was concerned, Mia was the best sister in the world. She was funny and clever and sweet, and she always had a _little_ time for them, even though she was eleven now, and Mother called her a little woman and was always teaching her how to cook and weave and sew, and wanting her help doing it, now she was big enough. She wheedled Mother into making candy sometimes; taught them all the songs she knew as she tended the fire, churned the butter, or did the mending; and she had made Rosie a special doll and Cullen and Branson special costumes to play knight in.

Sometimes, Mia's stories were about King Maric and the rebellion fighting off the Orlesian invaders. Sometimes they were about mages and demons or dashing Antivan princes or Rivaini pirates. But sometimes, her stories were about Andraste and the Maker, and those were the stories Cullen liked best.

Mia sat by the stove. Its light glowed on her yellow hair, brighter and curlier than Mother's, and worn long and loose instead of in a braid or a knot behind her head. She moved her hands as she spoke. Sometimes it looked like they danced, and watching the shadows they made on the wall was almost as good as hearing her stories.

Branson sat up in bed, with his arms around his knees under the fur blankets. Cullen lay down and let Rosalie curl up against him.

"You know, they didn't let women be chevaliers in the Orlesian Empire for centuries and centuries, but in Ferelden, our girls have been fighting since Andraste herself," Mia said. "People like Lady Shayna, Calenhad's best and most trusted warrior, and Queen Rowan—Maker rest her soul, have fought alongside their husbands, sons, and brothers for forever." She grinned at Rosie, who giggled.

"So, one time, right after Andraste married Maferath—"

Cullen booed right on cue with Branson and Rosalie. Mia pretended to be angry at the interruption. "None of that now," she said. "Before he became the definition of every lowlife traitor _ever_, Maferath was a brave man and a great leader. This was years and years before he got jealous of the Maker and went so wrong."

"He had to be wrong in the first place to betray Andraste like he did," Branson objected. "He had to be bad all along."

"No one's _all_ bad, Bran," Mia told him. "Sister Eugenie says Maferath was sorry for betraying Andraste, later in his life. Everyone makes mistakes. Everyone does bad things. Some things are worse than others. But the Maker made us all, even Maferath the Betrayer."

Bran rolled his eyes but didn't argue.

"_Anyway_," Mia said, rolling _her_ eyes too, "Right after Andraste married Maferath, the Tevinters attacked their tribe. Mages blasted fire at the Alamarri and set the sky black with clouds, flashing lightning down. They sliced open their arms and used their blood to call demons and wraiths against Andraste and Maferath's people. They let the demons into the bodies of the dead, creating enemies that couldn't bleed or feel any pain at all, but could kill just as well as any other warrior. There were ordinary warriors too. They weren't hardly as tall as the Alamarri, nor as brave, but they had much better swords, spears, and armor, as wicked and clever as everything the Imperium built.

"The Tevinters were scared of the Alamarri, you see," Mia said confidingly. "They were growing stronger and wiser with every year, and the magisters knew they couldn't keep the barbarians down forever."

"Just like the Orlesians," Rosalie whispered to Cullen.

He glanced at her, annoyed. "Shh."

Mia waited, then continued. "The Tevinters didn't care who they killed," she said. "They struck down old men, children, mothers with babies at the breast. The only thing _they_ wanted was to terrify this brave new alliance Andraste and Maferath had built. In the fighting, Andraste saw a big, ugly magister—with a forked beard and a scar on his right cheek—impale her father, Elderath, on the end of his wicked staff. But she didn't even have time to cry for him, because before she knew what had happened, a soldier had scooped her up in front of him on his horse. Andraste kicked and bit, but the attack had come so quickly, she didn't have her sword, and the warrior pinned her arms so she couldn't fight free. His arms had black, wiry hair all over them. They were the size and shape of a First Day ham. His breath smelled like garlic and onions.

"Eeew!" Rosalie said with distaste.

Mia smiled. "They wanted Andraste because they knew she was the wife and daughter of important chieftains," she said. "They hoped it would bind the spirits of the Alamarri, knowing she was suffering in captivity. The Tevinters took Andraste far away and made her work as a slave in backbreaking quarries, dawn till dusk. They didn't give her any rest days. Most days they didn't give her any dinner—just breakfast and supper, and nothing that tasted good even then."

Cullen snuggled farther down into the blankets. Now Branson lay down too, on Rosie's other side, crumpling his pillow under him to prop his head up higher. Rosie squirmed so she was more evenly between Cullen and Branson, reaching out to Bran with her hand. He huffed a little but took it, and Cullen smiled.

"With Elderath dead and Andraste stolen, Maferath was left to rule the giant tribe he and Andraste had created together all alone. Maybe that was the way he wanted it, and maybe not, but Andraste's people loved her. They were loyal to her and not her husband, and they wouldn't listen to Maferath or pay any of their tributes until he went to the Tevinters and bargained for Andraste's return.

"So Maferath went. He took a whole herd of cows, thirty sheep, fifteen thoroughbred horses, and twenty men and women-at-arms. He took carts full of gold and silver, of fine jewelry, and beautifully woven tapestries and tunics, and crossed the Waking Sea to bargain for Andraste's release.

"And Andraste, suffering in her captivity, heard him coming. Suddenly, the overseers watching her and the other slaves as they worked in the quarry were distracted. The Tevinters whispered among themselves, and Andraste, who was clever and was beginning to learn their language, heard their words for 'barbarian' and the name of her husband. Maferath had come for her.

"But why should she wait for him to finish negotiations?" Mia asked. "For the first time since she had been taken, the Tevinters weren't watching her. They were all looking toward the other side of the camp, straining to see the wealth that Maferath had brought. Andraste knew it was her chance to make her enemies sorry they had taken her and killed her father. If she waited for Maferath to make them rich, all the Tevinters would learn was that raids like this were a good idea; good business. Andraste wanted to make sure they lost at least as much as they gained by taking her away from her people, to make sure they were happy to see her go. So Andraste picked up one of the rocks she had cut away from the cliffside, and she hurled it, with a strong arm, into the skull of the man that was meant to be watching her line of slaves as he was gawking toward the entrance of the camp. Her rock struck true. It caved his head in. He fell bleeding to the ground and was dead before he hit.

"In a flash, Andraste ran to his body and plucked up his short sword. In two blows, she struck the chains away from her feet, and she glared in challenge at the slaves down the line. 'Will you stay here, bound in chains, or will you strike against your enemies?' she demanded. 'Come with me and take your freedom back into your own hands, away from the evil oppressor!'"

Cullen thrilled to Mia's words. He could hear Andraste's fierce cry in his head, see her standing, tall above the body of her enemy.

"All the slaves in the line roared with one voice," Mia said. "Andraste struck their chains with her short sword, and each one took up his own rock, or a length of the very chain that had bound him, and they followed Andraste through the camp. They struck down the other overseers, banding together to take each one down. They were too many for the lone overseers, each standing alone at his post. Andraste freed the lines, one by one, until she had three-score men and women with her—thin, in rags, but standing proud and angry, ready to break away from the Vints. Andraste herself struck down the man with forked beard and scarred cheek who had taken her, slicing him from his belly button to his neck so his guts spilled out steaming on the ground.

"They came at last to where a fat magister sat in a tent, across from Maferath at a table at the entrance to the camp. He blinked his pouchy eyes and rubbed his ringed fingers together nervously when he saw Andraste, fierce-eyed and covered in the blood of her enemies, naked sword held at the ready at her side. He reached for his staff, for the little knife that would summon demons to defend him—but what was the point? There were too many slaves. He might slay many, but he himself would die in the end.

"But Maferath smiled to see his warrior bride. 'All right, my love?' he asked.

"'Certainly, now,' Andraste replied. 'My thanks for the distraction that allowed us to come meet you as is proper, husband.' Maferath nodded graciously, and Andraste turned her fierce eyes on her enemy. 'Have you reached terms for my release?' she demanded.

"The magister stammered out that they were getting to it, and asked whether Andraste had killed all his men. 'Every mother's son of them,' Andraste said. 'Come to an agreement with my husband, magister. Whatever terms you would have accepted for my release you will accept for _this camp_'s release. You will keep these people in bondage no more. Take the payment my husband offers you, but remember what happened here, and when you return to your own masters—put the question to them whether this bargain was _truly_ worth it.'

Cullen laughed softly with Branson. Rosie had fallen asleep, her own curls tumbled across her face. Mia was quieter now, so not to wake her. "Maferath and Andraste returned to their home, with sixty new friends and neighbors, and Maferath was pleased as anything by the valor and boldness of his new wife. She had turned the bargain he meant to make with the Vints into no bargain at all. With the loss of sixty slaves and an entire quarry, Tevinter would likely be poorer for taking Andraste, even after all Maferath's gifts to get her back, and they were like to think twice before attacking again: the Alamarri were costly people to oppress.

"Andraste's people welcomed her back with gladness, and as the people she had liberated in the quarry joined the rest of the tribe, her fame grew. And Andraste kept listening to the voice of the Maker she had first heard as a child, and thinking of the cruel, false gods of the Tevinter that compelled them to such evil, of all the thousands and thousands of slaves across the Imperium still suffering in captivity, and she began to plan their liberation. But that," Mia finished, standing up and swinging herself lightly up onto the bed behind Cullen, "is another story."

She reached across to ruffle Bran's hair, then Rosalie's. Bran sighed, closing his eyes and letting Rosie's hand go as he fell into sleep. And Mia squeezed Cullen's shoulder and kissed his cheek. "Thanks, Mia," Cullen whispered.

"Anytime, Cullen," she whispered back, rolling onto her side, facing away from him with a little smile on her face.

Cullen closed his own eyes and went to sleep dreaming of the Maker's justice.

* * *

**A/N: Okay, so this chapter is mostly fluff, and the story-within-a-story is extra. But the thing is, in these early chapters of the series, Cullen-fluff is **_**useful**_** fluff. The warm and fuzzy feelings offer what might be a needed breather between the terrible traumas other children might be experiencing (even if they won't remember it). Cullen's happy childhood also makes for an illuminating contrast piece. Now, he's the rural son of a shepherd. He's not rich or important, but he's so privileged, and he doesn't even know it. He's free, and he's human. He loves his family, and his family loves him. They're happy and live lives of dignity and purpose in a nation that is no longer a second-class province of Orlais. So I figure the fluff is worth illustrating that. And anyway, stories and songs are entertainment and history for the people of Thedas, and something of that was worth including too. **

**And the Chant is beautiful. Kudos and credit to the writers who created it. I wanted to include almost all the Canticle of Trials in the Codex, but I managed to restrain myself. Still—genuinely inspiring with a feel that comes very close to what I feel myself when reading Scripture. If you haven't taken a look at it, I recommend it. **

**Leave a review if you've got something to say,**

**LMSharp **


	5. Katja: She'll Kill Us

**Characters: **Rica Brosca, OFC Etta, Kalah Brosca, mention of others, F!Brosca (Katja)

**Pairings:** None

**AU Elements: **While the younger Brosca's father did run to the surface to flee criminal charges, abandoning Kalah, he was Mining Caste, not casteless like Kalah herself, and like Kalah's affair with Rica's father, Kalah orchestrated her affair with the father of her second child in an attempt to raise herself up.

* * *

**9:13 Dragon**

**Dust Town, Orzammar**

RICA

It hadn't started out so bad. Mom cried and complained often enough anyway, and Rica hadn't known anything was different at first. But then she had started rocking back and forth in her bed, pacing around the house, clutching her back and her pregnant belly, cursing and grimacing. Finally, Rica had been more worried than afraid of bothering Mom, and she'd asked what's wrong. "What are you, stupid?" Kalah had grunted. "A useless _girl_ and stupid too, huh." She always spit _girl_ at Rica like a curse. "Just my luck. The brat's coming, that's what. Don't suppose you'd do something helpful for once and get one of those dusters out there to help, would you?" Her face had crinkled then, and she hissed an unbroken stream of curses out from between her teeth.

Rica had run outside three times since then, but no one would help them. The first time, an old woman had just laughed at her. The second time, a group of dusters drinking down by the fence's hovel had started making jokes about Mom. This last time, Etta from next door had just pushed Rica into the dirt, hard. "I'm busy, duster. Just shut the slut up. She's not the only whore in the world to have a baby." Her lip curled then. "Not even her first brat."

Rica waited until after Etta turned away to gesture at her back. She climbed to her feet, rubbing where she'd landed. She didn't want to go back inside without help for Mom. Etta was right; she was screaming now. She'd started that a little while ago, loud, and interspersed with breaks of sniveling sobbing. "He's gone, Rica, he's gone. He left me to do this alone, damn it! Void take it all! He said he looooved me, but I was just some duster pieeeece."

Rica rubbed her dirty forearm across her own eyes. Crying was no good, none at all. Mom's fancy man had left them flat, hightailing it for the surface when some noble or other had found out his scales were rigged and not even taking them too. But they had made it fine without him before. They had survived, anyway. They could still do that. And maybe the baby would be a boy, and his grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins would want him and would take care of all of them. Miners had as much trouble having kids as nobles, sometimes more. Rica thought she'd like to be mining caste and learn to hear the song of the Stone.

She crossed to the little well. The water here tasted like dust, dirt, and shit. Everything down here did. If it hadn't been dropped in the dirt while some starving dusters half killed each other to get to eat it, the merchants that sold grain to Dust Town probably mixed it with dirt beforehand. Once, Rica had begged a nug sausage off a vendor in the market. She still remembered the hot juices running down her chin, the way it had tasted—all meat, not mostly grain with scraps from who knew what mixed in to fill it out.

Rica drew two buckets of water for Mom. Carrying them back home, her arms shook, but no one offered to help. When she shouldered open the door and saw Kalah, though, she almost dropped them.

The house smelled like blood, shit, and piss, and Kalah was squatting on the floor, her legs completely bare. Her skirt had been wadded up and thrown in the corner of the room. Her face was so twisted Rica almost didn't recognize her, red and sweating, swollen and covered in snot and tears. And between her legs—

Rica felt sick.

"Help me, girl!" Kalah screamed. "Help!"

The next several minutes passed in a haze of blood and sweat. Mom squeezed Rica's hands until they were bruised and sore and hit her around the head in her own pain more than once. Rica tried to follow the instructions Mom gave her in between bouts of cursing, but she made mistakes more than once, and Kalah screamed that if she killed her little brother, _she'd_ kill Rica.

_I'm never, never having children_, Rica thought hazily, as she tied a string where Mom told her to, and Mom collapsed to the floor. Rica stared at the bloody, hollering _thing_ in her hands, horrified and fascinated.

Kalah crawled up to sprawl on the bed. She left a bigger mess behind her on the floor, a gush of more blood and stuff from between her legs that Rica didn't even want to think about. Rica swallowed hard and got a rag from their tiny cupboard. She wet it in the bucket of water still left and started cleaning the new baby, trying to ignore its protesting.

"Mom," she said.

"What?" Mom sighed.

"It's not a boy. It's a girl."

"What?"

Kalah's voice was even quieter now. Rica could hardly hear her over the wailing of her new sister, who was still yelling at the top of her little lungs. She was clean now—mostly—red-faced and wrinkly, waving hard, knotty little fists and skinny legs, furious. Rica tried to wrap her in a larger rag and almost dropped her twice, she was moving so much.

She did hear Mom start crying again—quiet, wrenching sobs far different than the loud, dramatic crying she'd done earlier. Out of the corner of her eye, Rica saw her Kalah reach her hand out for the blanket, like she couldn't see it, clench her fist around it, and pull it over her naked, bleeding lower body. She curled up into a ball, her shoulders moving up and down with her crying, and didn't say anything else.

Rica looked at her new sister. She wouldn't be mining caste after all, then, even if the girl's grandparents, aunts, and uncles were nicer than her daddy. None of them would. "Casteless," she told her sister quietly. "Like me and Mom." She hugged the wriggling, angry, ugly thing to her body and held her until the screaming became a whimper and then stopped.

* * *

Rica woke up a little while later when the baby started whimpering again, nestled into the side of her body. She had managed to get most of the house clean before she had been too tired and hungry to do anything else but sleep. As if to remind her, her stomach growled, gnawing at her insides insistently.

"I bet you're hungry too," Rica told her sister. The baby didn't look as ugly now as it had earlier. She was still red and strange-looking, but she was cute, Rica decided. The little pink lips and eyes all buttoned together. The hair that stuck up in spikes all over her head was dark like her dad's had been instead of red like Mom's and Rica's. Rica liked the way it was all over the place.

The baby's cry was sadder than it had been, more insistent. Rica got up off her little shelf and walked over to Mom's bed. "Mom," she said. "Mom."

Kalah groaned and curled in tighter on herself.

Rica tugged at her shoulder. "Mom, she's hungry," she said.

"Then she can go out begging like her sister," Kalah snapped. "I carried that brat for nine months. If I'd known she'd be another girl, I would've taken a nice tumble down the stairs as soon as I found out her cheating, lying sire had put her in my belly! In fact—" Kalah curled her hand around her gray, thin pillow, turned over, and reached the other hand out for Rica's sister, like a claw. "Give her to me. I'll shut her up."

Rica stepped back, horrified. "Mom, no! She's just little! You can't kill her!"

"Can't I? I'm her mother, ain't I? Don't I have the right to decide whether I'm keeping the brat or not? Give her to me!"

The baby was crying loudly now. Rica hoisted her higher on her hip. She was heavy. Rica patted her on the back and tried to hush her. "Mom, it's not her fault!"

"If we keep her, we'll all starve that much quicker, Rica," Kalah said coldly. "Her daddy's gone, and her grandparents don't want any casteless bitch to remember their son by. Maybe I feed her now. Maybe she'll be pretty like you and some nice merchant lady'll give a few gold to keep her mama in the milk. As soon as she's off it, what then?"

"I'll feed her," Rica burst in. "I'll take care of her, Mom, I promise. Just feed her as long as she needs you for that, and as soon as she doesn't, I'll get what she needs. I'll change her and put her to sleep and everything now. Just tell me what to do. Please. She's my sister. She's just little."

Kalah put the pillow down. She fell back to the thin, moldy mattress. "Huh. I like that. Just got old enough to crawl in the dust on your own, and you're going to take care of a baby." Her voice was scornful.

"I can do it!" Rica protested, hugging her crying sister closer. "We get more 'cause people like me, don't we? We do okay. I can get enough for her too when she's older, I know I can. Please, I'll take care of her."

"And get a knife in the ribs for your trouble," Mom scoffed. "You ain't gonna be little forever, Rica-girl. Then you'll pay the carta its due just like every other duster in this dump. We'll see how good we're eating _then_." She yawned, winced, and rolled her eyes. "In a couple years, when the carta starts sniffing around for part of what you're begging, she's still in diapers, and you aren't big enough yet to work on your back, you remember that I warned you. Give her here."

Her tone was different now, but Rica still hesitated. Kalah snorted, and held her arms out again. "We could starve the brat now," she said sarcastically.

Rica carefully handed over her sobbing sister and let her aching arms fall to her sides. "Don't hurt her," she whispered. "Please. She's my sister." Despite herself, she felt her eyes stinging. She shook her head, frustrated with herself. _Crying's no good._

"She could've been a brother and saved us," Kalah said bitterly. "Should've been. I should've known I wouldn't be so lucky. She'll kill us, girl." She lifted her dirty shirt, put the baby to her breast, and closed her eyes. "You want her, Rica-girl, she's _your_ baby," she told Rica, firmly. "You change her. You put her down. You wipe her nose and clean up her puke when she gets sick. You beg or steal the stuff we need for her. I'll feed her until she's big enough for you to do it, and then I'm done. Understand? She can starve or go to the Deep Roads for all I care. She's _your_ baby."

Rica raised her chin. "I understand," she said.

Kalah laughed suddenly, without opening her eyes. She shifted in her blanket, and Rica's sister smacked her lips and cooed. "Be good practice for you, I guess," Kalah grunted sleepily. "You're a whore in the making if I ever saw one, Rica-girl. Begging so pretty for your sister. I used to be pretty like you, before. I guess you'd better get used to taking care of disappointing bastards before some fat, sweaty noble or sweet-talking merchant leaves one in _your_ belly. Up and leaves you without a sovereign to care for his brat. But then, when it's time, you'll probably win the lottery." She laughed again, drifting off to sleep as she did. "And I'll be dead. That'd be my luck."

Rica watched until both Mom and her baby sister had fallen asleep there. Then, gently, she lifted her sister away from Kalah, holding her over her shoulder.

Kalah stirred. "Bounce her," she mumbled. "Pat her back until she pukes up on you. If she's good, she'll go back to sleep after."

"What do you want to call her, Mom?" Rica asked.

"Don't care," Kalah slurred tiredly. "Your baby. Just get her out of my sight. Make sure she grows up useful."

"Yes, Mom," Rica promised, trying to jerk her hip up and down to lift her sister up and down as Kalah had told her. She looked into the baby's red, sleepy face, and left her mother laying in her filth to go out to beg for bread, and started thinking about a name.

* * *

**A/N: Kalah is seriously the worst. Hate her, and I think this is even before she descended into alcoholism. Whenever I play the Brosca origin, I have this incredible urge to just wrap both Brosca kids up in bear hugs, take them to a warm, clean room, and give them huge mugs of hot chocolate: "Oh, honeys, I'm **_**so sorry**_**." **

**Leave a review if you've got something to say,**

**LMSharp**


	6. Cassandra: Dragon Hunter

**Characters: **Cassandra Pentaghast, OFC Inge, Anthony Pentaghast, mention of others

**Pairings: **None

**AU Elements: **None

* * *

**9:13 Dragon**

**The Holdings of Vestalus Pentaghast, the Grand Necropolis, Nevarra**

Cassandra blew through the halls of her uncle's silent house like a winter wind. She stepped on the hem of her dress and tripped. "Blast!" she cried. Then, unsatisfied, "Maker!" She plucked at the itchy brocade over her skinny shoulders, climbed to her feet, and glared at the fashionable Orlesian slippers her nurse had wheedled her into wearing this morning. The ribbon roses all over the toes made them unbalanced, even if they hadn't had to let down her skirts again last week. Cassandra plucked both dainty satin slippers off her feet and walked barefoot the rest of the way to her room.

Once inside, she threw the slippers unceremoniously into the wardrobe and reached behind her back for the fastenings to the monster dress she'd had to wear to go to Lady Therese Marin's tea this afternoon. But the ribbons tangled and knotted. Cassandra tugged uselessly at them. "Inge!" she yelled. "Inge!"

Her nurse, a plump, butter pat of a woman with a face like day-old porridge, bustled into the room a minute later. She took in Cassandra's pink cheeks, wild hair, and frustrated expression at a glance. "Milady, you tried to undress yourself again, didn't you? How many times have I told you to wait for me? What have you done now?"

She turned Cassandra around bodily by the shoulders, examining the wrecked laces of the tea dress. "I got stuck. Why don't they make these to get out of?" Cassandra demanded. "They're so uncomfortable, it's the least they could do. Who wants to wear a dress like this all day?"

Inge clicked her tongue. "I'd've done a lot for dresses like yours when I was a girl, Lady Cassandra, and my Gretchen just about dies to see how you get to dress. Don't you think you look nice at all?"

"Who cares if I do look nice?" Cassandra retorted. "I can't _move_, Inge. You know Gretchen could _have_ my dresses if they fit her. I'm sorry they don't. I'm too tall." She tugged at her skirt, resenting its length again, wishing she could have stayed in shorter skirts, as she had worn when she was younger.

Inge grabbed Cassandra's wrists. "Here now, stop fidgeting, or we'll never get you out. Do you have to _mutilate_ them so?"

Cassandra glowered. "I get impatient," she muttered. She was quiet a moment as Inge's strong fingers worked at the laces on the back of her dress. "I know I shouldn't."

"You're a fine, active girl," Inge said. "We might see if we can order some dresses with side and front fastenings next time. How would that be? Maker knows I've no idea why you spurn a bit of help when it's available to you, but I know you like your independence."

She was quiet a moment, and untangled a knot. "Won't be long now, milady," she said, with satisfaction. "Don't feel guilty about Gretchen, milady. You know how I talk. She's _that _grateful for the ribbons and purses you've sent. We both are. You're not made along the same lines, is all. She knows it, and no seamstress can change that. But you _are_ getting so tall. I daresay it's uncomfortable enough now, when you've just let down your skirts the fourth time this year, but it won't be so bad in time. You'll see: you'll be a lovely, great girl. Impress all the young men. And there you are." She pulled Cassandra's dress apart at the shoulders, laces untangled, and Cassandra stepped out of it and walked away without looking back to throw herself down on her bed in her underwear.

She lay facedown for almost a minute, then propped herself up on her elbows to look at her nurse. Inge was brushing the gown down quietly to return to the wardrobe. "What if I don't want to impress the young men, Inge?" Cassandra asked. "What if I want to go with them?"

"What's that, milady?" murmured Inge absentmindedly.

Cassandra stared at the wall. "Anthony went dragon-hunting last month. He helped Tomas bring down a drake! Last month, _I_ went to six of these boring parties, and I think the only one I didn't look silly at was Lady Ada's, because she needed someone to kill a spider that crawled up to the table and I was the only one brave enough."

Inge hung up Cassandra's dress and came to sit beside her on the bed. She squeezed Cassandra's shoulder, smiling a sweet smile. Cassandra hated that shoulder squeeze and that sweet little smile. It almost always meant Inge thought she was being stupid. "Oh, milady, everyone goes through a bit of an awkward phase. It's harder for you, I know. There's not another girl that goes to court that lives in the Grand Necropolis, and that can seem a little strange. But trust me: in just a few years, you'll be a big success for that same reason!"

"It's not about living at the Grand Necropolis," Cassandra snapped, pulling away from Inge's large, soft, calloused hand. "It's _me_, Inge. The girls don't like _me_, and I don't care for them either. All they care about is ribbons and whose brother or sister is marrying whom and who had ham that tasted like despair at a dinner party. They're boring. Why can't I just stay with Anthony?"

Inge sighed. She started running her fingers through Cassandra's hair, trying to put it into some order. At first, Cassandra wanted to shake her off, but it felt nice, so she pillowed her chin on her arms and was still. "Lord Anthony's a fine brother to you, milady, and a promising young man. I've no doubt he'll be one of your clan's finest dragon hunters someday. Of course, as a Pentaghast yourself, it's just right that you have an interest in the hunt, but ladies just don't hunt dragons, understand? They hawk, maybe. Hunt rabbit and fox. Deer sometimes. But dragons are deadly, milady, and you're too precious to us. To your uncle, especially. Maybe you'll be a great rider and sportswoman someday, and I'm certain you and your brother will always be close. But leave the dragon-hunting to him, hmm? You've a place at court for you when you're grown. You're a princess of the king's own blood. I'm sure your uncle will put up some of what your father lost for you when the time comes. You'll marry and have more little ladies and lordlings that will change the world."

Cassandra rolled over, forcing Inge's hand away from her hair. She stared up at her nurse. "Why will my children save the world?" she demanded. "Why can't _I_ do it, Inge?"

Her nurse's plain face wrinkled with confusion, and Cassandra sighed. "That will be all, Inge,"

"Milady—" Inge started, still concerned.

"Don't worry about it," Cassandra told her. "Go home to Gretchen. I'm sure she'd be happy if you got home early today."

Inge brightened. She was quick to take advantage of any extra time to see her own daughter, who lived back in the city with her father, a brewer. "If you're sure you can manage, milady,"

Cassandra tugged at her underclothes for emphasis. "I don't think I'll have too much trouble," she said.

Inge smiled, stood, stooped, and kissed the top of Cassandra's head. Tomorrow was a rest day, so Cassandra wouldn't see her back until the day after. Honestly, that suited her just as well. Inge was a good nurse to her. She was a kind, generous, motherly woman, and Cassandra knew she was lucky, because Uncle Vestalus paid Inge, but the nurse loved her anyway. But she talked too much, and she didn't understand. Not really.

She waited until Inge's footsteps had faded down the corridor, then jumped off her bed and went back to the wardrobe. In the back, behind all the fashionable slippers and horrible gilt sandals, there was a single pair of hardy leather boots she had insisted on, and underneath the boots, tucked away neatly, was a patched loose shirt and a pair of breeches she had traded a gold swallow pin to the stable boy to get.

Cassandra pulled them on roughly, grateful she could manage these clothes on her own. The breeches were getting a little tight now—she might soon have to trade for another pair—but for now, they fit well enough for a girl who wasn't going anywhere. Swiftly, Cassandra braided her hair again, tightly and severely back from her face, so none of it would escape. She tied the black plait off with a deep purple ribbon, enjoying the bright color against the gloss of her hair for a moment, then threw the braid back over her shoulder and made her getaway—to the open sky; to the training yard.

There were always a few discarded training tools around, and Cassandra found a staff soon enough—a little tall for her, but not much. Still cut for a boy and not a full-grown man. Anthony had wheedled Uncle Vestalus into letting her out here sometimes, and she was grateful. If he hadn't, she would probably be crazy by now. But neither she nor Anthony had been able to convince Uncle Vestalus yet that she was serious enough about her training that she ought to have her own equipment. She had to make do with what they had for Anthony and the boys who came here to train with him.

It made her sad. It made her angry, and Cassandra flew at the training dummies in the yard with a vengeance. Her technique was bad, she knew. Anthony's instructors never spent time with her like they would with the boys. It was stupid. It wasn't fair. And she didn't want to go to court and get married and for her children to be the only ones who ever _did_ anything.

Her staff whistled through the air, hitting the dummy on ribs, shoulders, up against the head. The solid _thunks_ of impact felt wonderful. So did the sweat that ran down her face, the way her braid whipped out behind her, and the way her arms moved with smooth control and her legs could lunge. Why couldn't they see? She could _do_ this.

Not well. Not yet. The too-long ends of the staff scraped the ground sometimes in a way that slowed down its motion. An enemy would take advantage of that in an actual fight, sneaking inside her guard to hit her. Sometimes the staff slipped out of her fingers or she got the grip wrong and pinched them instead. But that wasn't her fault! It was the staff that was too big for her, and that Anthony's teachers wouldn't teach her too, that the boys that came to practice with him always held back fighting a girl.

Cassandra found she was crying as she practiced. The sounds of her labored breathing, her sobs, and the _thunks_ of staff on dummy carried and echoed in the silent city of the dead. Until Cassandra turned, whipping her staff out, and instead of hitting with a _thunk_ on the leather practice dummy, there was a loud _crack _as it met a weighted wooden practice sword instead.

There he was. He was only fourteen, but he was as tall as a man now, Cassandra thought. He wore a drakeskin belt around his waist as a trophy from his hunt last month, and the dagger hanging from it wasn't a child's knife or a commoner's but the weapon of the stranger he was turning into. Every day he seemed further away from her, but she thought he still had a boy's face, maybe. And somehow, he still knew to come when his little sister was crying. She didn't know how he'd always known.

"Was little Lady Therese that terrible?" Anthony teased her. He disengaged, and stepping back, arced another blow toward her, overhand, leaving her plenty of time to parry.

Cassandra caught his sword on her staff, minding her footwork. "No," Cassandra admitted. "I think she thought she was being nice. She's just so—they're all so—it's _everything_."

"Everything," Anthony repeated, eyes twinkling. "That's specific."

Cassandra struck at him, and he blocked the blow easily. "You know what I mean," she complained. "Inge and Uncle Vestalus, every lord and lady in the whole Blighted court seems to think I ought to grow up to be a lady."

"Language, Cassie," Anthony said mildly.

"But that's what I mean!" Cassandra said emphatically, giving up the halfhearted sparring and striding away, tossing the staff aside. "If any of them were paying any attention at all, if Inge had any sense or Uncle Vestalus were ever around they'd know I'll make a _terrible_ lady. I can't do it, Anthony. I don't want to. I won't."

"So don't be," Anthony said reasonably, walking over to pick up the staff and put it in its place on the rack at the edge of the training yard. "You're right. You would be terrible at it."

Cassandra felt slapped, and she stared at Anthony, who looked back at her impassively and shrugged. She opened her mouth, but then he went on. "But I'll tell you what: I think you would make a wonderful dragon hunter." He smiled. "Better than me, even."

Happiness inflated inside Cassandra, and she smiled. "That's what _I _think!" she agreed. Anthony grinned, and Cassandra rushed to add, "I mean, not better than you. No one could be better than you, Anthony. But I think I would be a much better dragon hunter than lady at court. But Inge says it just isn't done."

Anthony rolled his eyes. "Nonsense. Andraste was a warrior even before she was a prophet, wasn't she? There are women chevaliers and women Templars, and the last queen of Ferelden was a general in the rebellion. There's no reason at all there can't be women dragon hunters."

Cassandra sighed. "Tell that to Uncle Vestalus and Inge."

Anthony thrust his thumbs in his belt, looking down at her consideringly. "I thought I had," he admitted. "But you're still kind of on the edge of things out here, aren't you?"

Cassandra nodded.

Anthony squared his shoulders. "Well, I'll just have to train you myself, I guess. I don't know everything yet, but I know more than you do, and I can take some extra time to show you. I will." He smiled apologetically at her. "I can't get you out of the parties, though, if Uncle Vestalus wants to send you. Sorry."

Cassandra shook her head. She didn't have words for this, so she just lunged forward and hugged her brother. "This is enough," she promised. "If you'll just show me how to fight, if you'll take me with you, when I'm older—I'll be just fine."

Anthony tugged on her braid. "Always better with you anyway, Cassie. You make me braver. Now come on. You got an even earlier start on things than I did, you know. I didn't start training until nine, and you've already begun." Disentangling himself from her, Anthony walked back over to the weapons rack at the edge of the yard, and selected a weighted wooden dirk. She was still small enough that, for her, it would make a good practice sword.

Cassandra took the weapon and followed Anthony back into the center of the yard to begin.

* * *

**A/N: Cassie and one other character, at times, are specifically written to all the girls everywhere that ever felt like square pegs in round holes, like everyone around them was telling them there was only one right way to be a woman, and that way just didn't work for them. If that was you or still is, **_**you are so not alone**_**. I see you. I hear you. Say no and offer no apologies. To those who tell you, explicitly or otherwise, "Ladies just don't do that," return, "I'm a lady, and **_**I'm**_** doing it." Fiercely keep your identity and your femininity. You don't have to give up either. **

**Also, everyone should have a sibling like Anthony, biological or adopted. Find people that will believe in you, support you, and invest in you, while always encouraging you to be your best. Anthony and Cassandra are sibling goals.**

**Leave a review if you've got something to say,**

**LMSharp**


	7. Kaycee: Midnight Flight

**Characters: **F!Hawke (Kaycee), Malcolm Hawke, Leandra Hawke, Carver Hawke, Bethany Hawke, Unnamed Fear Demon, OFC mule Nancy, mention of others

**Pairings: **Malcolm/Leandra Hawke

**AU Elements: **None

* * *

**9:13 Dragon**

**Near Olven's Crossing, the Northern Bannorn, Ferelden**

Kaycee had thought Mistress Sonia was her friend. That was all she could think of, somehow, as she tripped in the dark. The bushes scratched her face, because she had to run. Nancy was the best mule in the world, but she couldn't carry the little pack Father had made before they had had to leave _and_ her _and_ Mama _and _Carver. And Father couldn't carry her _and_ Bethany _and_ his staff. So she had to run like a big girl. But it was hard, and she was tired, and her face and hands were bleeding from all the scratches because they couldn't go by any roads yet, and she kept falling and slowing everyone else down.

She had thought Mistress Sonia was her friend.

But when Mistress Sonia had come into the kitchen and had seen Kaycee and Father playing with lights, not even anything dangerous, just practicing, she had gone straight to the Templars, and now they had to leave again to find a new home.

If they even got there.

In the distance, Kaycee could hear the bloodhounds baying. The Chantry had been too close. They hadn't had time to get or burn everything in the house, and so there was a scent for the dogs to track. If the Templars caught them, they would make Father Tranquil, or maybe kill him even, and they would shut Kaycee up in some Circle far away and she would never see Mama, Bethany, or Carver again.

The bloodhounds were farther away than they had been. Father knew a few tricks. He had sent out wisps for the Templars to chase, and for a while, they had been fooled. Kaycee couldn't hear their voices anymore or see the torches they carried through the trees, just the dogs, and hopefully, soon they would be able to fool them too.

Kaycee wiped her eyes and nose on her sleeve as she ran. She didn't have time to cry or be scared. She knew it was bad, but she was jealous of the twins, on Nancy with Mama and slung over Father's back. Neither of them remembered the other times the five of them had had to run or understood what could happen. Bethany was scared like Kaycee was, but Father hadn't told her yet that the Templars might be able to beat him if they caught him, if they were good enough and there were enough of them following. Bethany didn't know what the Templars could do, and so she knew they were in trouble, but she didn't know how bad it _was_. Carver thought all of this was a big adventure. He kept trying to ask Mama questions and talk. Bethany was a good girl, and so she had been quiet like Mama and Father had asked, but Mama was having more trouble with _Carver_. Neither Carver nor Bethany had to run.

Kaycee was so thirsty, and she wondered if her breathing was loud enough the Templars' dogs could actually hear it through the forest. Then she heard the water.

A river! It was splashing over rocks up ahead through the trees. It sounded fast. Kaycee slowed down and glanced ahead at Father, carrying Bethany. "Ca-can we cross?" she panted.

"We must," Father said, keeping his voice low. "More than that, we must walk or ford upstream a good ways—a mile or two at least. You must help us, Kaycee."

"Me?" Kaycee whispered. "I—I do-don't know if I can. If you—if you made a storm . . . maybe I . . . could make it stronger, but . . ."

"Kaycee. You can do this," Father said, his voice strong and steady. "I believe in you. Leandra, take Nancy ahead into the stream. Make for the canyon—" Father pointed toward a dark shadow to the left. It looked like a rip in the hills. "You must tell us if the river becomes too deep or too treacherous, the rocks too slippery or too few and far between. Can you do that, my love?"

Mama nodded. "Can you give us a light?"

"Not until we pass into the canyon," Father answered. "I'm sorry."

"Well," Mama answered. "This was always going to be dangerous. Listen closely, Malcolm. We may not have much time to warn you."

"I will be right behind you," Father promised. "I have to defend us if they come, and I have to help Kaycee. Kaycee, my girl, you will come behind us. Work with the earth of the riverbed and the water of the river. It will eventually erase all signs of our passage in any case; you must convince it to do so more quickly."

Kaycee understood what Father was asking her to do—to magic the earth and the water to hide their tracks in the gravel and dirt of the riverbed. She knew that the job was probably easier than calling a storm out of nothing. But she'd only moved single pebbles around before, and it had taken her weeks to figure out how to fill her cupped hands with water. She was better with light, and little fires, or blowing out candles.

Why did Father want her to do it, anyway? She was barely an apprentice! She stared up at him, but he looked back down at her, Bethany's eyes wide over his shoulder, and Kaycee swallowed. She nodded.

Father reached out and clasped Mama and Carver's hands, and Mama took Nancy into the river. Father adjusted Bethany on his shoulders and walked after them, and Kaycee twisted the staff Father had made for her just a few months ago in her hands and splashed into the river.

The current was fast and strong, and Kaycee threw her arms out to keep from falling, fighting the water pushing and pulling at her calves. It ran over the tops of her boots and down into them. It was cold, and hungry, and Kaycee shivered. More tears ran down her face.

She sobbed and swallowed. "Remember: you are a mage," Father said in a low voice, stepping back after Nancy, Mama, and Carver and holding his hand out to her. "You control the river. The river does not control you."

Kaycee nodded fiercely. She could hear the dogs, louder now. They were closer, following the scent. Their family could only escape if they walked through the river and into the canyon. Then the dogs wouldn't be able to smell them anymore, and if she hid their tracks in the riverbed, the Templars wouldn't be able to see which way they had gone either.

Kaycee focused on the water, hungry, determined to make its way past all obstacles in the riverbed to wherever it was going. She focused on the streambed and its relationship to the water, how the water pushed everything smooth. _This is your place_, Kaycee thought. _We don't belong here. We were never here. _

"Kaycee," Father said sharply, looking behind her, and Kaycee saw the river flowing higher, coming faster downstream. It rose around her knees, pushing her harder. She stumbled and choked back a scream.

Father caught her hand, gripping it tightly and pulling her up onto the next rock upstream, toward the canyon. Kaycee clutched at it. Snot was running out of her nose now. She had released her concentration on the river, and the water had stopped flowing so fast.

"It's alright, Kaycee," Father told her. "You have some power, my girl."

"Aaaah, but no finesse," a slow, chilling voice said in a tone that seemed to creep into Kaycee's heart and crawl over her skin. She turned wildly, looking for the Templars, but saw no men, no horses, no dogs. But the air behind her looked _different. _There was purple and red in it. It moved like a breeze would, if you could see a breeze by more than where it had been. But it stayed more or less in the same place. _Something_ shifted in its depths, and Kaycee froze.

"_Daddy_," she whispered. She saw flashes of things with long, hairy legs and too many eyes. She smelled blood and saw rusted swords.

"Do you know how many have died crossing this river?" the creeping voice asked. It laughed, a creaking, wet laugh. "Neither do I, but enough that there is a little tear, just enough for me to hear you, dear. The pounding of your little heart, the sobs you try to stifle. I can help you, you know."

"Malcolm?" Mama called. "What—"

"It's a demon," Bethany whispered. "It's a demon, isn't it, Daddy? Why—"

"Keep back, Leandra," Malcolm said sharply. "Kaycee, have you called this creature here?"

"I didn't," Kaycee whispered.

"But you did," the voice laughed. "Your power called me, and your fear. You are right to be afraid, little mage. Without my help, you will fail here. Concentrating on your craft, your feet will miss a stone. Your father carries your sweet sister. He must fight any Templars that come. In the dark, he might miss your stumble, and you could fall and break your neck before he was any the wiser. Or worse, you could lose control of your power again and sweep your entire family away, and you with them—against the rocks and down the valley where the river is deep. The Templars would not find you then. But neither would anyone else.

"Let me in, little mage. I can give you the power you lack. I can help you hide your family and get them all safe away. I can give you the wisdom to help you coax the river."

The things inside the red-purple shifting air flexed. Kaycee looked back at her Father. Upstream, Carver was moon-white in the dark, trembling and clinging to Mama's arm. His eyes kept flicking between Kaycee and the thing, and when he looked at her, he looked almost as scared as when he looked at it. "Malcolm," Mama said again, her voice low. She seemed to be telling Father to do something.

Father didn't answer Mama, though. He kept his eyes on Kaycee. "What do you have to say to this creature, Kaycee?" he asked.

Kaycee trembled all over. Her feet felt like ice now, and she shivered, looking back through the woods toward the dogs. "If I let you in, you wouldn't be able to leave again, would you?" she asked. Her voice shook.

"If you let me in, you would not _want _me to, little mage," the voice answered. "I would protect you. Together, we could wield such power there would be no reason to fear."

"But we'd always be a we, wouldn't we?" Kaycee said slowly. She stared into the gap in reality, the shifting, terrifying visions she saw there. "Me—and _that_. _You_. You would turn me into an abombin—an awbom—a—" she looked up at Father.

"Abomination," he told her, quietly.

Kaycee wrinkled her nose. "An ugly monster," she decided. "I wouldn't be me anymore. I'd be _us_, and we'd _both_ be crazy. I couldn't survive with _that_ in me. I wouldn't care about helping my family anymore, and _you_ don't care about us now. You just want inside of me. I won't let you."

"You think you can stop me, little mage?" The voice in the air had gone hard and angry. "Where there is fear, I have power, and you, Kaycee Hawke, are _very_ afraid. You fear the Templars. You fear failure. You fear what you see in your brother's and sister's eyes as they look at you now, knowing you have called me here. And you fear _me_."

Two more tears ran down Kaycee's cheeks, and she nodded. "I don't know why Daddy's making me do this. It's not fair. I'm scared. I'm angry. I want help."

The air pulsed, and whatever was through the Veil seemed to draw nearer, but Kaycee whirled her staff toward the rip and pushed. A gust of wind tore through, and the creature backed away, if only in surprise.

Kaycee swallowed and jutted her chin out. She felt so lonely. She was exhausted, and a big part of her wanted to just give in to the demon. Let it handle everything. But the bigger part of her was sure she shouldn't. She held her staff in the only defensive position she knew, sideways in front of her body. It wobbled as she tried to balance in the river. "I don't want help from _you_," she said, quietly and clearly. "Maybe my fear did bring you here. I'm sorry for wasting your time. But I'm a mage. My fear doesn't have to control me."

There was a shriek, and then a _whoosh_. Father's staff whipped out over Kaycee's head, and a thousand pebbles from the river flew at the space in the air, fast as diving falcons, or even arrows. There was another scream, and black blood burst out of the air and fell into the river before flowing downstream. The place the creature had been faded to the color of the rest of the night, and Kaycee couldn't see any hairy legs or visions of knives or Templars or anything there anymore. The demon was gone. But Kaycee could see the air still shifting around the place where it had been.

Kaycee looked at Father, and he reached out and squeezed her hand. "Good girl," he told her.

"Maker help us," Mama breathed. "Sweetheart, I—"

"We need to keep going," Kaycee said. Her voice was small. "Fast. I'll talk to the river again. I made it angry before, almost convinced it we shouldn't be here _now_. I can stop it from feeling that way, I think. Just go, Mama."

She could see Mama's eyes on her, bright in the dark. She saw them bob up and down as Mama nodded, then turn away as she started Nancy up the river again and into the canyon.

Kaycee looked at Father, and her lip trembled. "Daddy, please, I know you have to watch for the Templars and hold Bethany—but don't let me fall. Please."

"Never." Father's voice warmed Kaycee right through, even in the middle of the river in autumn. "I will _never_ let you fall."

Kaycee took a deep breath, wiped her nose on her sleeve, gripped her staff tighter, and concentrated on the river once again, whispering to it with her mind as she stepped after Nancy, Mama, and Carver and Father and Bethany.

* * *

**A/N: If I wanted to fix the Dragon Age world, I would probably have all mages learn like the Hawke kids, from a master like Malcolm Hawke. Masters would need to be certified, and all mages would need to register and check in on a regular basis. Mages do present a legitimate danger to society (and to themselves), but learning to be independent and responsible with their power in a sort of martial-arts setup would be infinitely more conducive to healthy use of magic than basically incarcerating them and surrounding them with guards all the time in a way that can encourage both laziness (the Templars and the senior enchanters are right **_**there **_**in case of any accidents) and secrecy and resentment in the mages and fear in outsiders who don't see mages on a daily basis. **

**Anyway, this feels a little bit cheesy to me. But I hope it's cheesy in a good way and not in a bad one. Let me know. I write these for love and not for feedback. But the feedback does help. If something makes you think, if you want me to consider something you think I haven't, if you're enjoying the fics, or if you want to express your love for a particular character or a particular story, please review. It helps me to engage with whoever's reading. Again: reviews are never required. But they're always appreciated, and I reply to every review I can and adore the unsigned ones I can't reply to as well. **

**Best Always,**

**LMSharp **


	8. Estral: Da'len

**Characters: **Deshanna Istimaethoriel Lavellan, OMC Eylan Lavellan, OFC Siar Lavellan, F!Lavellan (Estral), mention of others

**Pairings: **Eylan/Siar Lavellan (parents of Inquisition's Lavellan), Deshanna/nonappearing Sellin Lavellan

**AU Elements: **None

* * *

**9:14 Dragon**

**Clan Lavellan, Somewhere in the Northern Free Marches**

Deshanna would be judged on how she acted today, she knew. It had been a mere three weeks since Keeper Roshaun had returned to the gods. At six-and-twenty, Deshanna was still young to be Keeper of a clan, but the previous Second, Rian, was a youth of sixteen. All the same, there were those of the clan that would have preferred Rian become Keeper. After all, he had been born Lavellan, hadn't he, and Deshanna only adopted when Clan Istimaethoriel had needed to send an extra mage away? There had been grumbling six years ago when the Keeper had made her First, and more in the months leading up to his passing and the weeks since.

Still, Deshanna didn't think she had made any large mistakes since she had become Keeper. She had led Roshaun's funeral rites as was proper, and only one or two of the clan had muttered about them. Since, it had been routine decisions the likes of which she had discussed with Roshaun hundreds of times if she'd discussed them once—dispute resolutions, patrol rotations. Determining safe places to water and camp. The seasons waxed and waned, but these things remained constant. Deshanna knew them now by instinct. But today, Siar was having her and Eylan's first babe. Children were born with the seasons as well, but each one was precious and unique. Not even blood brothers were the same, and each babe warranted a celebration and a naming. Siar and Eylan's babe was the first Deshanna would welcome into the clan.

Ellanis was with Siar in the family's tent. She would call Deshanna if mother or babe required healing, but the old woman had far more practical experience with midwifery. She had seen to all Lavellan's newborns for nigh forty years. Rheumatic pains were beginning to torment her in her hands and joints, but her mind was still sharp, and she'd taken on a young apprentice—Dairdra—three seasons back. The two were well supplied with herbs from the gatherers. It was spring. Winter births were more difficult.

Deshanna sat with her back to an elder chestnut, legs folded beneath her and her staff across her knees, and contemplated what sort of child Eylan and Siar's first might be.

Eylan was a popular man—one of the clan's finest hunters, with an easy smile; a ready joke; and a steady, reliable way about him. He was short of stature, but strong, with a head of brown curls, dimples, and twinkling amber eyes. In truth, years ago, Deshanna had fancied Eylan herself, but she had been dedicated to her studies of Lavellan's unique lore and traditions when Eylan wished to go courting. She saw now that they would not have done well together; her man Sellin—the clan's best woodworker—was better suited to her more serious temperament than Eylan could have ever been, for all he had not seemed so dashing when she was younger. In any event, once Eylan had begun keeping company with Siar, he had been lost.

Siar was quieter than her man, some eight years his junior. Nineteen this year, she was old for a first-time mother, but she and Eylan had wed when she was just fifteen, and she had already been Prinna the weaver's most promising apprentice. These days, Siar was producing a full third of the clan's cloth, both that for tents, pavilions, or blankets and that for wearing. She was quick at her loom, Siar, and had a knack for producing delicate, fiddly patterns most weavers did not bother with. Her face was plainer than many, her hair a soft fawn, and her eyes an unremarkable green. But soft-spoken as she was, Siar had a gift for truth and speaking it plain, a deep love for story and song and a sweet voice in their sharing, and an open sense of humor that matched her man's. She was one of the better girls in the clan, in Deshanna's opinion, if not so popular or noticeable as her husband, and Eylan had proved his sense in wedding her. She would be a loving and honest young mother, as Eylan would be a strong and dependable father. Their child might be a pretty thing, or it might not, but if the gods allowed, Deshanna believed it would be a sweet one, kind and good, and certainly beloved.

One of the children brought Deshanna word that the babe had been born just as warm, yellow afternoon dwindled into golden evening—a girl-child. Deshanna sat another hour by the chestnut, giving Eylan and Siar some time with their newborn daughter, then she rose and walked over to their tent.

Eylan met her by the entrance, eyes shining with wonder and love. He clasped her forearm. "Deshanna. Come to see our darling?"

"If I may."

Eylan shook his bronze curls, denying she had any reason to think she should ask. "You know you're welcome in our tent, Keeper. You and I were always friends."

Deshanna followed Eylan into the tent and knelt beside the bedroll. Some kind soul had plaited Siar's sweaty hair back from her face, evidence of her good work, and her face had been washed clean. She cradled the babe in her arms, and smiled up at Deshanna. "A warm greeting to you, Keeper."

"Mythal's blessing on you and your sweet daughter," Deshanna replied. "Have you thought of a name for her yet?"

"Estral, we thought," Siar answered. "For the east wind that brings a change."

Deshanna smiled. "Not for the west spring wind that blew her in or the flowers or herbs that grow this season?"

Siar was firm. "No, Keeper. I don't think the westerns will hold it against us, and flowers die too soon. She's a change to us and will have to change with the seasons, and Estral's what we'd like to call her."

"Estral she shall be, then. By your leave?" Deshanna reached for the babe, and Siar held her up for Deshanna to take. Little Estral was warm and wriggling, awake, but content for now to be silent, even in the arms of a stranger. She had her father's bronze curls, skin like his that would tan in the sun, but otherwise, Deshanna thought, Estral showed sign of Siar's features. It was impossible to tell yet whether all this would work for her or against her, but there was charm in the way her brow arched over her eyes, the tilt of her tiny nose, and her little bow-shaped mouth. It was parted now, as if she would start singing or telling tales right off, though she made no sound. She blinked up at Deshanna, eyes open wider than was usual for infants. Deshanna well knew newborn babes couldn't see like older ones, much less understand what they took in, but little Estral seemed to see her, to consider her.

"She looks clever," Deshanna murmured.

"That's what I said!" Eylan said, with satisfaction. "Elannis told me, 'You're biased, you are. Every new papa wants to think his babe the cleverest and most beauteous creature that ever lived.' I figure she would probably know, but I also can't see as Estral looks any handsomer than most babies. She just looks _smarter_. Almost like she could talk right now, and her only an hour old."

He extended his finger, and Estral wrapped her tiny fist around it. Eylan just about glowed with the pride of it.

"Have you any idea to which god you'd like to dedicate her?" Deshanna asked.

"That's yours to decide, Deshanna," Siar smiled. "Eylan wants Andruil, of course, but I'd prefer Sylaise, or June perhaps. Our next, if the gods are good, can follow Eylan to the hunt. I want to keep Estral by me. Maybe that's silly."

"The clan needs all sorts," Deshanna said, touching the tip of Estral's nose lightly with her finger. "Craftswomen, lore keepers, huntresses, gatherers, caretakers for the halla, and teachers for the children. We'll be grateful for whatever path calls to her when she's old enough, and you know whichever god we pray to for blessings for her now need not keep watch over her for her entire life." Already though, she knew the god she prayed to before the clan in eight days' time for Estral would not be Andruil, Sylaise, or June. She would meditate on it, but she had a sense that she was right. It could be Dirthamen, for knowledge, but with the openness of this child's face—Mythal. Mythal, she thought. Mythal for clear sight and leadership.

She bent her hand over Estral's brow, closed her eyes, and thought a prayer of thanksgiving and protection to Mythal for the child now, in any case. Mythal was the mother. It was only right to do so.

"Blessings on you, child," she whispered aloud. "Grow strong as old tree roots, wise as a serpent, swift and graceful as the halla. Be loved. Be well."

Deshanna opened her mouth to see the child staring back at her, lips working as if to echo her, hand stretched up. She handed Estral back to Siar, who was beaming.

"Thank you, Keeper," Siar said. "I'm glad you'll be giving her benediction soon. I think she likes you."

Deshanna gripped Siar's shoulder, and with another word of congratulations for Eylan, left the family to their joy. They made her glad, Eylan and Siar, and it was good that the first family to bear a child in her time as Keeper were such fine friends. Selfishly, Deshanna reflected that it could help. Eylan and Siar would speak well for her, today and after Estral's benediction. It could only help her transition to Keeper.

But what a lovely child!

* * *

**Leave a review if you've got something to say,**

**LMSharp **


	9. Tirrian: A Warrior Born

**Characters: **Cyrion Tabris, OFC Finna, OFC Aynrie, F!Tabris, Mention of Adaia Tabris, Valendrian, OMC Tomald Tabris and OFC Lindra Tabris (Soris's parents), and OCs Willem and Kyra Chaslin

**Pairings: **Cyrion/Adaia Tabris

**AU Elements: **None

* * *

**9:14 Dragon**

**Denerim Alienage, Denerim, Ferelden**

The last day and night had lasted an eternity. Cyrion had watched the sun set and rise and set again through the house's south-facing front window. Tomald and Lindra had come by with food and drink at some point, but Lindra had her own young son to see to. After they had gone, Elder Valendrian had come. Sitting next to Cyrion as an entire candle burned down, Valendrian had said several prayers as the midwife and at least four other women had rushed in and out of the bedroom. Valendrian had witnessed the kettles of boiling water, the handfuls of dire herbs that must have cost three families a week's wages to purchase from the apothecaries. He had seen the bloodstained sheets and cloths, the pale, drawn faces. He had heard the women muttering. And Adaia screaming . . . screaming. Then worse, falling dangerously silent as other voices rose.

Cyrion felt he would never forget the elder's quiet support, but at last, he too, had needed to go. There were others who needed him. Valendrian was a leader of men, not a healer of the body. "I can't tell you what to do here, Cyrion," he'd said quietly. "If you need me tomorrow, I will come."

The hearth fire cast light on the blades of Adaia's knives, thrust innocently in the basket next to their walking sticks, half-shadowed by their ill-weather cloaks hung above. Cyrion had been so terrified of those weapons once. Adaia was as wild and fearless as she was lovely. He had loved his wife from the moment he met her, a few days before their wedding, but she had frightened him too. He had been certain he would lose her to the shem. She bridled at each unfairness, and the nobles and wealthy merchants that sought their servants in the alienage were not patient. Cyrion had feared the day a human killed his wife, but he had believed her strong enough to withstand anything else. He had never believed he might make the decision that would kill her.

In the early hours of the morning on the second day, the midwife came to him. Her hands and sleeves were dark with blood to the elbows. There were streaks of it across her forehead where she had wiped her sweat away. But cradled in her arms was a bundle wrapped in rough homespun, and from inside it, a small, wet fist was waving.

"It's alive," Cyrion said. His voice was rough and hoarse. It sounded foreign to him, flat, and he cleared his throat and stood. His legs shook, and he braced himself on the table.

"They both are," Finna said. The woman, in her early forties, seemed to have aged a decade over the past two days. "For now, in any event. Adaia may still leave us. I have only ever heard rumors of women surviving this procedure. Blood loss may take her in a matter of hours. Infection could take her later. It will be weeks before she is out of danger, and she may never safely carry again or bear you another child."

Cyrion closed his eyes. "Did I do right?" he whispered.

Strong hands clasped his, warm and strong, but so sticky with his wife's blood that Cyrion was almost sick. But as they moved his arms into position around a little figure, Cyrion's eyes opened and looked down into the red, scrunched face of a person—his child—wrinkling up to cry at the shift.

"Oh, don't, dear one, don't," Cyrion said, instinctively, adjusting the child to a more secure position in his arms and extending his finger to the tiny, waving fist. Fingers, some of them no longer than his largest fingernail, wrapped him up with surprising strength, but it did not stop the indignant wail of the disturbed child. The sound was plaintive and pathetic, but so undeniably alive that Cyrion couldn't help the sob that rose in his throat.

"If you had not asked us to do this, Cyrion, you would have lost them both," Finna said firmly. "Your little girl there will _live _now. We'll all pull together and do what we can for her mother. If the Maker grants it, Adaia will pull through as well. That would be a blessing indeed. Maybe half a miracle. But in any case, He's not left you alone today, and that's a kindness."

The door opened again, and one of Finna's assistants came in with another bucket of water. The woman grunted her approval, plunged both hands in, and began to scrub. "There's soap, Finna," Cyrion told her. "On the shelf by the door."

"Bring her back here, and we'll wash your daughter too," Finna said. To her assistant, she said, "We'll need more water. At least two more buckets. We'll want to get Mistress Adaia cleaned up as well."

"Yes'm," the girl said, leaving the house again to return to the river.

The child in Cyrion's arms kept up her complaint, jerking his finger to and fro in her small fist. Carefully, worried he might drop her, he walked over to Finna and the bucket. She had found the rag bin, and was using one of the cleaning rags to clean herself more thoroughly, making use of the soap as she did so. The water in the bucket had turned pink, but it was still cleaner than the alternative.

Cyrion gave Finna the child, who washed her capably and completely without ceremony, heedless as the girl's crying grew ever louder and more insistent.

"What does she want? How can we help her?" Cyrion asked.

Finna shook her head. "She's only frightened and upset. She'll be cold too. The really young ones are always cold. Wrap her in blankets, give her a soft, warm place to rest, speak softly to her, and she'll calm down soon enough. She'll be hungry, but you'll be needing a wet nurse to help with that. Kyra Chaslin, three streets over, down by the river, just had her fourth. She'll have milk to share if you could wrestle up a bit of coin. None of the young ones are old enough yet to work, and Willem and Kyra will have a heavy burden for a few years yet."

"Of course," Cyrion agreed. "If you could go to her, Finna, or send someone . . ."

"As soon as Aynrie returns from the river, I'll send word," Finna promised. "I'll need cloth and pin and a blanket for her, Cyrion," she added, shifting subjects without so much as a warning.

"Of course," Cyrion said again, crossing to the chest under the window where Adaia had so lovingly folded all the things for the child. He found what Finna wanted. He would have handed them to her, but she insisted he practice securing the cloth around the child's bottom, working the pin so it did not harm her, and folding her blankets around her. He followed her instructions dutifully, trying not to think of what he would do if Adaia left him—tomorrow morning or the next day—and he was left to do these tasks alone.

He felt numb, still half-paralyzed with fear for Adaia, but unspeakably grateful for his daughter, who did indeed begin to quiet after he had held and rocked her in the blankets for a few minutes. Aynrie returned with more water and was dispatched on her errand to Mistress Chaslin, and Finna left him to return to Adaia, to see how she was and try to clean her up as much as possible—for, as she said, for whatever reason, in her experience, cleanliness was always the enemy of infection and disease.

Cyrion settled on the same chair he had sat in for two days, still rocking his body softly from his hips, but now gazing at his daughter's face instead of out the window. The gray morning had turned golden, and the sun's dawning rays shone even over the leaking thatch roofs of the Denerim alienage, falling soft upon the child's face. There was something of Adaia in its shape, he thought, in the golden sheen to the soft fuzz over the child's head that served her by way of hair. But in the straightness of his daughter's little nose, the lightness of her skin, and the set of her mouth, he saw more of himself than of his wife.

"Don't grow up like me, child," Cyrion told his daughter. "You can do better than that." If he lost Adaia, he could not fathom how he would bear it if one day he could not see her in their daughter at all.

Before she had returned to Adaia, Finna had asked what they had planned to name the child, but the truth was, she had no name as of yet. Adaia had been against imposing a name upon a child that it did not fit. She had vowed that once they met their tiny son or daughter, they would know what to call the child. Now, Cyrion did not want to name the child without her. It would be admitting, somehow, that he believed Adaia would not recover.

He had believed it, an hour ago. He had believed it for long, hopeless hours last night. Else why would he have made the decision he had, when Finna told him she'd only rumors of mothers surviving when the babe was cut out of them, that every time she had been led to this extreme herself and other midwives and physicians she knew had done it, the mother had died? But now that Finna reported Adaia held on, hope had fought its way back into Cyrion's heart.

"Your mother is a warrior, little one," Cyrion whispered to his daughter. "The wildest rogue you'll ever know or hear of. You should live to see her rage against injustice, witness how she protects and champions her friends and neighbors. She terrifies me, and I adore her. Yet if she lives through this, it will be the bravest battle she's ever fought. Like the battle you fought to join us."

Cyrion bent to kiss his daughter's forehead, impossibly soft. Perhaps, he thought, there was more of Adaia in his girl than was visible at first glance. It pleased him to think so. It would be an honor and a pleasure to see her shake the earth before her with her ferocity as she grew. Her lips were pushing in and out, as if to nurse, her little pink tongue poking out. Cyrion hoped Mistress Chaslin arrived soon, even if it meant he would have to leave his girl in her sole care for the next several weeks straight to earn the coin to pay her for sharing her milk. He would do what he had to, endure what he must. Even if . . . but Cyrion shook his head, resolved. He wouldn't allow thought or word of defeat pass now, not when he could still hear Finna talking softly to Adaia in the bedroom in a way she would never talk to a dead woman.

Adaia would survive the procedure he'd obliged her to face, when all had seemed lost, and from now on, Mistress Finna could boast of her survival to all those midwives and physicians she knew. His brave wife would live to help him raise their brave girl. And she would help him choose their daughter's name, as they had spoken of before.

* * *

**A/N: Cesarean section has been in practice for thousands of years, but before the era of modern medicine, surgically removing a child from its mother when vaginal delivery proved impossible or would kill the child (i.e. in the event of the umbilical cord being wrapped around the child's neck) had an impossibly high mortality rate. There are etchings and rumors of women surviving before the 1500s or so, but they are impossible to verify. Even as late as the 1880s, 85 to 90 percent of women who underwent the procedure died, either of blood loss or from infection afterward. **

**It is hard to estimate whether the practice would be safe at all in the Thedan Dragon Age, because it can be difficult to evaluate which century of human development the Dragon Age would fit into if you moved everything over. The Norman Conquest has happened and been overturned (Orlesian occupation of Ferelden and Maric's Rebellion); the Dragon Age sees something roughly analogous to the Protestant Reformation begin, I think (Templar-Mage Wars?); and there have been several Crusades (Exalted Marches), but there has been no widespread interest in exploration of another continent, and no hint of firearms making use of the 'verse's equivalent to gunpowder (gaatlok). Evaluating where medical practice should be is even more difficult due to the existence of healing magic. **

**For someone like Elinor Cousland or Lady Pentaghast, I think, a cesarean section would likely not be as deadly a matter. Or even for Leandra Hawke. Anyone with access, either financially or through proximity, to a powerful magical healer would be in less trouble. Thus one of the alienage midwives knowing the procedure can work. However, for alienage elves with no access to magic, limited access to healing herbs, and limited knowledge of hygiene practices or ability to provide a properly hygienic environment if they did know, the procedure would be much more dangerous, and inexpertly executed c-sections could certainly hinder a woman's ability to carry safely and deliver further children. Even in our world today, there is something of a correlation, though the majority of women who deliver through c-section do not experience complications and many do go on to have other children. **

**Of course, if you're familiar with the codex, you know that this isn't the end for Adaia Tabris (spoiler alert). **

**This is the last of my first chapters. Of course, there are other potential Wardens, and there are other potential Inquisitors too, but I didn't have a story for them. I had a story for these ones. Let's forge forward and see how it unfolds.**

**Leave a review if you've got something to say,**

**LMSharp **


	10. Leto: For the Empire

**Characters: **Leto, OMC Master Bellisti, OFC Sulin, Varania, OMC Carsin, unnamed OMCs and OFCs.

**Pairings: **None

**AU Elements: **This may not be actually AU, as it's established Danarius is a liar, but young Leto lived in Ventus, across the channel from Seheron and not actually on it.

* * *

**9:15 Dragon**

**Ventus, The Tevinter Empire**

When Master Bellisti set up an appointment to talk with Leto in his library, he guessed he was being dismissed. If it was anything else, Master Bellisti could have just said something anytime. He was always around, shining shoes or carrying a pitcher of water for meetings or just back from an errand to the market. But for serious conversations, Master Bellisti liked to do things properly.

There was only one serious conversation any master ever had with a slave. Unless they turned out to be a mage like Verania.

After dinner on the appointed day, Leto left the kitchens, straightened his jacket and set his hair in order, checking the cloudy silhouette in the frosted glass panes of Mistress's porcelain cabinet. As he walked down the corridor, light from the windows and valences caught the polished leather of his boots. Maybe he was about to be dismissed, but he'd be Blighted if it was for _ever_ being unprofessional.

In the afternoons, the light in Master's library wasn't as good for reading. The windows faced east. But it was still Master Bellisti's favorite room in the big house. Mistress and Miss Xenia never bothered him there, and so it wasn't too unusual for him to hold interviews in the library in the afternoons after going over accounts in the morning.

All the books and scrolls that lined the walls of the library gave off a smell that, over the years, Leto had come to associate with power. The books in Master's library taught him things that helped him make the decisions that prospered or beggared their farm. Knowing how to read the letters in them meant Master could also write his own, messages to people all over the Imperium, if he wanted.

Leto couldn't read or write. Teaching slaves to read was discouraged. People thought it was a waste of time. A slave didn't need to read to work. Sometimes, Leto thought he could be more help if he could read and write—Master was always wondering where this or that book was, and Leto could never tell him. But Master Bellisti was a traditionalist. He had never offered to teach Leto to read. A few times Leto had asked to borrow one of the smaller books to see if he could work it out on his own. He had learned he _could_ work out a lot of things on his own—hadn't he figured out the patterns Master and his business associates counted up large measures of grain and supplies all by himself, and learned the best merchants to see in the market too? But the first time Leto had asked for a book, Master Bellisti had laughed at him. The second time, he had been annoyed, and the third time, he had asked if Leto didn't have enough work, if he thought he had the time to learn to read. Leto hadn't asked after that.

He still liked the smell of the books in Master's library though. He liked looking at them. He would miss them, when he was dismissed.

Leto waited in the doorway for the Master to call him. That was how things were done. It seemed stupid to Leto. As far as he could tell, Master wasn't doing anything. He was just turned around in his chair, looking out the window. Thinking, maybe.

Leto adopted the position he had learned to stand in when waiting on the Master. Feet square under his shoulders, his weight equally on both of them, one wrist clasped in the other hand behind his back. Leto could stand like this for a long time without getting tired or fidgeting.

He had learned to pass the time repeating all the songs he had ever heard inside his head to himself, counting objects in a room, observing people if he was lucky enough to be in company with them, or trying to remember the passage from the Chant of Light the sisters had sung on the last rest day word for word. All without really stopping to look at Master Bellisti for a minute, so as soon as his master needed him, he was ready. He had often been bored when he had to attend Master Bellisti when the man was alone and there wasn't an errand to run. But he knew it was better than the work the field slaves did, so he tried not to think about his boredom too much.

Finally, Master Bellisti turned around. He jumped when he saw Leto. He bit back a curse, then smiled ruefully, recovering. "I never do hear you come in, Leto. I swear, you move quieter than a dratted cat!" He shook his head.

Leto bowed. "I didn't mean to startle you, Master."

Master Bellisti waved off his apology. "Come in, come in." He gestured that Leto should stand on the other side of his desk, but when Leto came to stand there, Master Bellisti steepled his fingers under his chin and just stared at him. His eyes were distant.

Leto shifted finally. "You wanted to speak with me, Master?"

"You're a good servant," Master said finally. "A good boy. Unobtrusive, intuitive. Clever, for a slave. I think you know I was apprehensive about this arrangement—pages are usually a lot of fuss and trouble, and I've never cared for them. I took you on as a favor to your sister. But I've enjoyed you, these past four years. More than I thought I would.

"The trouble is," Master continued, "you won't be a _boy_ much longer, will you? You _eat_ like a young wolf. You'll have a man's height in a few years. Soon it won't be appropriate for you to be a page. But I can't keep you as a squire. A page can be anyone, but a squire is nobly born. You could be a valet or a manservant, perhaps, but the truth is, Leto, I don't _need_ one. I don't want one. It's an unnecessary expense."

Leto was silent. Master Bellisti hadn't asked him to speak. It was gratifying to know that he hadn't done anything but grow. But everything Master was saying still meant he had been right: he was being dismissed.

Master Bellisti moved in his chair. "I thought to send you to the field house," he admitted, "but the more I thought of it, the more I thought it would be a waste." Master Bellisti paused and looked over the tips of his fingers. "I've sold you, Leto. To the Imperium. We're always in need of soldiers for the war against the Qunari, and it can be a good life for a smart young man. There's a boat to the Dumastin Gymnasium in Carastes at the docks at sunset. A man named Carsin will be along to fetch you and some other boys in the city in three hours. You'll train for three years, maybe four, and then fight for the glory of Tevinter."

Leto forgot his training and spoke without thinking. "I'm going away, ser?"

"Yes," Master answered. "In just a few hours." He sighed. "I thought about this a great deal, Leto. I truly believe this is the most advantageous solution for all parties concerned. The gymnasiums only take the best of the nonmagical slave stock—the healthiest, cleverest, strongest youths in the Imperium. I was very pleased when Magistrate Corum told me they might be interested in you after his visit here six weeks ago. It's a credit to my house to have raised you."

_And to your purse_, Leto understood, without Master Bellisti needing to say it. If it was true that the Imperium only wanted the best slave boys to be soldiers, Master Bellisti had probably sold Leto for a large sum. Profit was always his highest objective.

Still, he seemed a little sorry to see Leto go, and that was something, Leto supposed. "There's honor to be had for you as well, Leto," Master Bellisti added, trying a smile. "Soldiers learn valuable skills and come in the way of some interesting opportunities. Many freemen are eager to join the army. There were a few years I wished to do so myself, when I was a younger man. The Qunari are a threat to us all."

Leto ignored this. "Ser, where is Carastes?"

Master regarded him a moment. "Here," he said. He motioned for Leto to join him on the other side of the desk. He pulled out a hidden shelf from inside the desk so it lay across the desktop. On it was a map, like the ones Leto had seen before of fields and trade routes when Master Bellisti was discussing the farm's yield or talking business with a visitor. There weren't fields and roads on this map, though. Because it was a map, Leto knew it probably showed the land as it would look to a bird, flying above, but none of the shapes made sense. Certainly none of the writing on the map did.

"This is a map of the Imperium," Master Bellisti told us. "This is where we are." He pointed to a small dot marked in green ink upon the vellum, just below—south—of a larger dot with writing next to it along a long, concave curve.

Leto blinked. "That's the sea, then," he guessed, tracing the curved line with his finger.

"The Nocen Sea, yes," Master confirmed.

"And that's Seheron?" Leto asked, pointing above the curve of the bay's representation at another, roughly circular shape that looked like it was floating above the rest of the land on the map.

Master nodded. "And this," he pointed at another dot along the coastline, southwest of the dots that stood for the farm and the city, "is Carastes. Not too far away—just two days by sea, with a favorable current. A bit longer by horse. But farther than you could get on your own." He slid the shelf and its map back into the rest of the desk. He gestured for Leto to resume his place on the other side of the desk. Leto obeyed. "You'll miss your mother and sister," Master concluded. It wasn't a question.

"I guessed you would probably sell me eventually," Leto said quietly. "I'm not trained to field work and extra for the house. I'm probably lucky you kept me this long. But I didn't think I'd be going so far away. To the city, maybe. A merchant or a shopkeeper. I thought I would still see them rest days."

When Master Bellisti's face darkened, Leto hastened to add, "I'm not ungrateful, ser. It should be interesting to be a soldier. And I'm not a child anymore. I guess I can't stay with Mother forever."

Master Bellisti softened. "You're a sensible boy," he said approvingly. "I think you'll do well at the gymnasium. Your mother and sister can be proud of you. All three of you can take the afternoon to say goodbye, until Carsin comes for you. On my order. Tell my wife and daughter, if they call for Sulin or Varania. And take this," Master Bellisti slid five silvers over the desk at Leto. "It may put you in the way of hiring a messenger one day to bring word to Sulin how you fare."

Leto took the money and looked at the bright coins on his palm. Five silvers wasn't much—enough to keep him in bread for a week, maybe. Buy shelter for a couple of days, or a simple trinket or medicine at the market. But he had never had any money of his own at all. He bowed deeply. "Thank you, ser."

"Yes, yes. Go to your family, Leto. And Maker go with you." Master Bellisti—or Mister Bellisti, now, Leto supposed, waved a hand at him in dismissal. Leto went.

* * *

"Come on, it can't be that bad, will it?" Leto asked Mother, squeezing her hand as he sat beside her on the bed. "Master Bellisti said soldiers fight for the glory of Tevinter, that the gymnasiums only take the best boys, and that someone like me could do well there."

Mother only shook her head and hugged him tighter. Varania punched her needle through her embroidery hoop into the bodice she was decorating for Miss Xenia, and it looked like she stabbed the fabric. "And have your errands for the Master ever taken you down to the docks down by the strait, Leto?" she demanded. Her voice was tight. "Have you ever seen a troop of men off to fight those horned monsters? Ever been in the market when they come back?"

"Don't!" Mother begged her, tears spilling from her eyes. "Please don't!"

"He's not a child anymore. Isn't that what the master said? So he should know!" Varania retorted.

"I'm not stupid, Varania," Leto snapped. "Mister Bellisti is bothered about sending me, for him. I think it was only what he got for me that made him sell—"

"_Master_ Bellisti," Mother corrected.

"Not for me. Not anymore," Leto said fiercely. "I belong to the Tevinter Imperium now, don't I? Anyway, there's no use scaring me about the gymnasium and the war, Verry. I have to go."

Varania glared down at Miss Xenia's dress. Then a tear fell down her face too. "And we'll never see you again, and we'll never know what happens to you."

Mother sobbed. "Can you just shut up?!" Leto exploded. "Can't you see you're just making it worse? Here—listen, Mother." He showed her the five coins Mister Bellisti had given him. "Master Bellisti didn't have to give these to me. He did it because I was a good servant. I'll be a good soldier too. I'll work hard, do what I'm told and more, and somehow, someway, someone else will want to reward me too. I'll get enough to buy time off. I'll come see you, I swear." He hugged her hard, then rounded on Varania.

"And I'll be _alive_ to come see you because I'm not an _idiot_," he added. "It's insulting that you think I'll just get killed straight out. What if I end up killing ten Qunari instead?"

Varania snorted. "You're clever, Leto. You're clever and you're pretty, so you think you own the earth. But _clever_ and _pretty _doesn't do a thing to stop swords and arrows and axes."

"I guess I have to make do with what I have without magic," Leto retorted.

Varania tugged her sleeves lower over her wrists. "That's all you need," she said darkly. "Another reason for the people who are _actually_ in charge to notice you. If _you_ ever manifest, I'm done."

"Varania, please," Mother said. "He's _leaving_."

Varania scowled. She stabbed her needle down into her hoop again, then thrust it aside, rose, caught Leto up in her arms, and kissed his hair. He pushed at her. Not very hard. Then rose on his toes to kiss her cheek in turn.

"You won't be able to take the livery," Mother said quietly from behind them. "I'll get your other things together and then we'll all see if we can't beg you some extra supplies from Cookie for the journey. How does that sound?"

Leto nodded. He reached across to brush the tears from Mother's face, and Varania let go of him to go help her.

* * *

At first, Leto didn't understand why Carsin had sewn a mage collar onto him and onto the other boys to keep them from running before they got to the gymnasium. The leather itched, and the spelled rune stitched onto it made the hairs on his neck stand on end. Who was going to run? Weren't they all honor bound to get on the ship with Master Carsin and sail to the gymnasium to train? They belonged to the Imperium now.

There were seven other boys Master Carsin had picked up in and around Ventus to go to the gymnasium. None of them were older than fifteen or so. Five of the others were elves like him, but two of them were human. One of the humans had come from the debtors' prison. The other, a black-eyed, shaggy-haired boy of about fourteen with a purple bruise along his cheekbone and a split lip, had been handed over in chains by a tired-looking woman with six other children behind her and a baby in her arms. She had looked like the boy's mother, and then Leto started to understand the mage collars.

The other boys had all been quiet when they first joined the caravan—sullen or sad or frightened. Leto had only been the second of them to join. As they had walked on for hours and hours, picking up other boys on Carsin's list, they had begun to relax, to talk and laugh with one another. They would miss their families, of course, but it was an adventure, wasn't it, setting sail on the sea to a place where they would learn to be soldiers and fight in the war?

They talked about the farms, shops, and slums they had come from, about their mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, and previous trades. When Carsin had called a halt for water or rest, they had arm-wrestled, already trying to judge what skills each of them might have and how they might do at the gymnasium.

Instead of wrestling with the other boys, Leto chose to watch. He didn't have the strength and technique of some of these others—not yet. For one, almost all of them were bigger and older than he was. But he had also been a page, while some of them had worked in the fields or warehouses, and one had trained as a smith before his master had had a bad year.

Leto's hands were calloused from work just like the other boys' hands were, but he didn't have their muscles. Looking at them, Leto also guessed a few of the other boys were used to fighting, in the streets or at home. He wasn't. He could wrestle with them, and they would think he was weak. Or he could keep to himself and watch and learn, so when he participated in their games, he would win.

Still, it was fun to watch them, to see how the clever boys used their height and environment to turn matches to their advantage and imagine how he might do the same one day. It was interesting to hear how other boys had lived and grown up. These weren't just boys he had met in passing on a rest day at the Chantry. He would live with them, and there would be so much more that he could learn. Carsin handed out supper—a round of bread each, some cheese, and lengths of rough jerky, and they ate together as they continued to walk.

They crossed to the other side of the market, moving toward the docks, farther than Leto had ever gone into the city for Master Bellisti or on a rest day. The smell of the sea grew stronger. There were more gulls, screaming in the air and fighting for scraps of bread and meat in the street. The sun was beginning to sink in the west. They would just make the ship for Carastes.

Then the streets opened up to the docks, and everything changed.

Later, Leto couldn't remember what hit him first—the foul, rotten smell or the sound of the carrion crows, harsher than the wheeling gulls. At any rate, he and the other boys looked for the source. They saw it. A gallows, as long as a building. There were a dozen bodies hanging on it.

They were dressed in rags, which hung off their limp forms and flapped in the breeze off the bay. They were all muscled, but thin enough Leto could see the bones through their purple and gray faces. Some were stripped to the waist, and a few of these had old whip scars like Leto himself had had for months when he was a child, and a lot worse than his had been.

Their skin was slack and looked slimy. In places, it sagged away from the skeleton. The carrion crows were perched on the bodies, pecking at the bodies. As Leto watched, one crow tore at an ear. A boy vomited behind Leto. The vomit fell on the stones of the road to the side.

There was a sign nailed to the top crossbeam of the gallows. Of course, none of the boys could read what it said, so Carsin read it for them. "Deserters," he told them. He spat in the dirt. "Come on."

The boys, silent and afraid again now, shuffled after their new overseer. As they went, Leto looked back over his shoulder. Some of the hanging bodies looked so young. He wondered if half of them had been older than twenty. A crow landed on the limp heel of another body, and Leto saw this body's ankle was also scarred—with the imprint of a shackle.

Carsin bundled them onto the ship to Carastes as the sky turned crimson and gold. He spoke to the waiting crew—a captain with a neatly trimmed black beard and a single gold earring and about eight burly men and coarse-looking women with bulging muscles and deeply tanned skin.

As they cast off from the dock, some of the boys were sick. Many went belowdecks, where the seamen had strung up hammocks and set up a card table for them. They were slaves to the state, yes, but they weren't prisoners.

Leto stayed on the main deck, sitting on a crate of straw for the fowl, out of the way of the seamen and women hauling ropes, hanging lamps, throwing out nets to trawl for fish, and giving orders. He looked out over the darkening waves.

Deep purple clouds seemed to be coming from the north, from an island now visible only as a shadow across the bay. Seheron. Near Leto, a man and woman on the aft side of the deck had struck up a duet as they worked to repair a torn net. By the tiller, Carsin was talking to the captain softly.

Then Leto saw something else. As the ship cut through the water, smoke was coming into view around the side of Seheron. "Look!" he called to the man and woman with the net.

They stopped singing. "Captain, you should see this," the woman relayed. "Off the starboard quarter!"

The captain called for the mate to take the tiller and walked down the deck. "Trouble?" he asked in a low voice.

"Doesn't look like it," the woman answered. "Looks like the battle's over, as far as I can tell."

The captain pulled a spyglass from his belt and looked through it toward the smoke. The flames creating the smoke were visible now, rising from the water in the distance.

The captain whistled. Then he said, "Damn those ox-men. Void take them all." His voice was quiet and passionate. "Carsin!" he said in a louder voice. Carsin had come over too, and Leto shrank back into the deepening shadows the ship's hull cast over the deck. The captain jerked his head at the flames. "You want we should look for survivors?" he asked.

Carsin considered. Then: "No. We're being paid to get fresh troops to the gymnasium, not to provide emergency medical relief. We'll stay the course."

The captain was quiet a moment, then he bowed his head. "You're the boss," he said. He didn't sound happy, but he left the railing with Carsin, walking away from the fire in the distance.

When they were on the other side of the ship, Leto got up and walked over to where the man and woman still were staring off into the distance.

It was a shipwreck, he realized. A great Tevinter war galleon, burning on the water near the eastern shore of Seheron. Something had torn the ship apart. The beams of the ship were like broken bones, jutting out black against the night and the flames. And over the waves, moving toward them, brought by the current and the wind from the north, jetsam was floating from the wreckage.

Leto saw apples, crates like the one he had just been sitting on, crude wooden shields. And pale things he didn't recognize at first, then did, as they bobbed closer.

The pale, floating things were dead bodies, ghostly in the lamplight and in the reflected flames off the water. The closest one was stretched out on a spar of wood that might once have been part of a mast. He was very close now. Leto could hear the water lapping against the wood and against his skin. And he saw clothes black with blood on an elf boy maybe three years older than he was. The boy had a gaping, bleeding tear through one shoulder. Another jagged, cruel rip through his stomach. Entrails like the kind Cookie had pulled out from pigs and chickens in the kitchens back home gleamed through the stomach wound. His glassy amber eyes, reflecting the lamp, were sightless and dull. His fingers were unnaturally tight around a broken spear shaft, gripping the useless weapon even in death.

Leto swallowed. He gripped the railing of the ship to steady himself, and his eyes stung. His promises to Mother and Varania just that afternoon now seemed hollow and stupid, and he felt very small and foolish. Had he thought this would be an adventure? Had he thought this was an honor? He had known Bellisti felt guilty about the sale. He should have known about this. He should have guessed.

The man who had been singing with the woman reached out and gripped Leto's shoulder, a bracing, comforting grip. "Be a good boy and don't tell the others," the man said softly. "Let them think they're sailing off to glory a little while longer, hmm?"

Leto stared at the corpse of the boy in the water, riding up and down in the waves, and said nothing.

* * *

**A/N: Say what you want about Tevinter. They've had a rough few centuries of it. Constant war against the Qunari—even if the Qunari don't call it that, and every other nation in Thedas either hates Tevinter too much or is too scared of the Qunari to help. War is ugly, and it's especially ugly for the poor and dependent. Desperation can result in the use of child soldiers or soldiers forced into service. There have been slave armies throughout history, and while I don't recall anything in canon explicitly saying slaves serve as the front-line cannon fodder for Tevinter, it seems like the kind of thing Tevinter might do or have been driven to do. And Leto was a slave with a gift for arms before he was anything else. He had to have learned it somewhere. **

**Things are starting to happen to these characters. Bartrand's become the head of Varric's family. As Malcolm Hawke once feared, his daughter Kaycee has grown into a mage. And Leto has been separated from his family and sold into the service of the Tevinter regular military and is off to training. Hope you're continuing to enjoy!**

**Leave a review if you've got something to say,**

**LMSharp**


	11. Alistair: An Inconvenient Resemblance

**Characters: **Eamon Guerrin, OFC Bann Aleda of Haresmeadow, OMC Ser Pelwyn, Teagan Guerrin, OMC Ser Tursten, OFC Lady Amity, OFC Tess, Alistair Theirin, OMC dog Urso, mention of other OCs, as well as Maric, Rowan (deceased), and Cailan Theirin and the unnamed but canonical Thalia Aurum and her husband

**Pairings: **None

**AU Elements: **Like Ventus, this is only a possible AU element, but at age four or five, Alistair Theirin does not yet live in Arl Eamon's stables but still resides in the house.

* * *

**9:15 Dragon**

**Redcliffe Castle, the Arling of Redcliffe, Ferelden**

EAMON

Maker, he hated state dinners. They had been tedious even when he had been a child and Rowan or his aunt and uncle had presided. Now that he was a confirmed old bachelor of nearly one-and-thirty and the sole ruler of the arling of Redcliffe, they had become intolerable. Three times each month at least, it seemed, some court butterfly or country flower came for a visit, eager to wed to advantage. There were men as well, wondering if he shared his father's interests, or merely attempting to befriend King Maric's brother-in-law.

Eamon preferred country dinners, out on the terrace or in the small alcove off of his kitchen. A small table with simple fare, where he could dress in the sensible wools or linens he favored and Anet, Robern, and Devon could join him for talk about the house and the fields and the village, perhaps, and Teagan if he had come over from his own estate.

At state dinners, it was silks and brocades, wrought silver candlesticks and the great table, too long for all the guests to see one another, let alone talk with any intimacy. It was glazed hams and candied fruits and fancy sauces to impress his visitors, and the talk was always of court, of politics, of the Chantry, or worst of all, of the weather. It was returning the insincere compliments of the ladies with just as insincere politeness, returning the gentlemen's queries about the king with courtesy that promised nothing and revealed nothing of any importance.

Tonight's visitor was Bann Aleda of Haresmeadow, but recently risen to leadership of her bannorn. Of the knights and ladies that had ridden with her, only the knight that seemed to be her chief financial advisor, a small, black-bearded man of middle years called Ser Pelwyn, seemed worth speaking to. He was soft-spoken and retiring, but the few remarks he had contributed to the conversation showed him to also be shrewd and observant, with a keen grasp of the workings of international trade. Eamon would have liked to speak further with him, but he had to pay his attentions to the lady.

Aleda was older than many other nobles who had visited Redcliffe—three years Teagan's senior at eight-and-twenty. Her wit was sharp enough, but she was also sharp-faced, with glittering dark eyes, a jutting chin, and thin lips, and she had a reputation for bad relations with her neighbors and harsh dealings with her servants. She made for a change from a run of fairly insipid women who had come lately, but Eamon did not enjoy her company, and he believed she knew it. Her face had grown sourer through the morning and her conversation more barbed.

Teagan, across the table from Eamon, in between one of Aleda's ladies and one Ser Tursten, was glassy-eyed with boredom. He slouched in his chair, and his arm, resting on the table, was dangerously close to the food on his plate. Eamon wondered if he should warn his brother, signal perhaps, or whisper to a servant to pass the message along. But if Teagan dirtied his tunic in the wine sauce, it would serve him right, Eamon supposed. And it would be entertaining.

The door to the hall burst open, and a joyous laugh rang out over the tedious dinner party. Tiny feet slid and pounded on the stone. Urso, who had been sitting at Eamon's feet in the same torpor as the rest of them, rose and broke into a frenzy of barking and ran across the hall to the small, fair-haired boy that had just run in, all flashing teeth and dimples, looking back over his shoulder at his pursuit.

"Just you come back here, Master Alistair, and see what happens!" a female voice shouted, breaking off into a laughing sigh herself. It was Tess, one of the kitchen elves, running after the miscreant boy that had broken into the hall and brandishing a wooden spoon. She braced herself on her knees, still chuckling, then saw the nobles around the table staring at her.

She went white. "Beg pardon, milord," she whispered, dipping into a curtsey and darting out of the hall again.

Alistair was completely unabashed. He grinned up at Eamon and Teagan and the others, raspberry jam smeared around his mouth and the remnants of a slice of cake still clutched in his fist. "Sorry!" he said, not looking it in the least. He bent into a bow that was lordly enough for all the crumbs on his tunic and trousers. "I forgot you had company. No, Urso!" he added to the dog, sniffing hopefully at the cake in his fist. "Hello, there!" His voice was bright and cheery.

"Sneaking sweets in the kitchens again, Alistair?" Teagan chided, unable to quite hide his own grin.

"I can rec'mend the cake," Alistair admitted readily, stuffing the rest into his mouth and shooting the dog a look of triumph.

"You'll break Eamon's poor cook's heart, swiping her lovely dessert before it's served," Teagan told him, trying to maintain severity.

Alistair's hazel eyes twinkled. "She doesn't mind, really," he assured everyone. "Neither does Tess. Beca might, a little, but she's just cross 'cause of her rheum'tism. Mostly, they're glad to share with little boys like me. They've said! 'It's nice to see a young man what enjoys his vittles,' Dera says. And it's not like I've _spoiled_ anything. She was cutting up the cake for you anyway. I thought there was an awful lot of it." He scratched Urso behind his head. The dog licked the crumbs off Alistair's grubby hands but then kept licking, eyes half-closed and mouth stretched wide in an expression of canine contentment. Urso was supposed to be a mabari war hound. Whenever the boy was around, he became a half-grown idiot pup. "Should've remembered there were more people here," Alistair said. "Milord, can Urso come play?"

Eamon tried to hide his own smile. The boy's behavior was barbaric, of course. He would have to talk to Alistair about it later. But one thing he could say: Alistair was _never_ boring.

"Go on, then," he said indulgently. "Don't feed him like you feed yourself, mind. He's a war hound, not a pampered court dog. And be careful where you play in future."

Alistair's smile stretched across his entire face. "Yes, milord," he promised. He bent into another unexpectedly elegant bow, considering his entrance and the fact that he was all of five years old. "My lords, my ladies. Have a nice day!"

He ran out of the hall again. Urso, understanding he was to be allowed to go, bounded after him with another bark. Teagan watched them go and sighed. Eamon glanced at his brother and felt a twinge of amusement, mixed with sadness. He knew that this afternoon, there was nowhere Teagan would rather be than in the courtyard with Urso and the boy, throwing pinecones and tugging on a ragged, dirty knotted rope or playing hide and seek in the stables. In many ways, Teagan was closer to Alistair than he was to his actual nephew in Denerim.

"What a charming child!" Lady Amity, one of Aleda's entourage, cried, smiling at the rest of the table. "Tell me, who is the young rogue?"

"His name is Alistair," Eamon answered. "His mother was a trusted servant. She died giving birth to the boy, leaving the boy an orphan. Since she had little family of her own, we've undertaken to raise him here."

"An orphaned servant lad?" Ser Tursten chuckled. "He has some nerve. Did you see him? Not shy in the least!"

"But then, Arl Eamon is known for . . . kindness to his retainers," Bann Aleda told Tursten. Her eyes were fixed on Eamon, and a smile played around her thin mouth. "_Not_ for taking on charity orphans, but I suppose the boy's mother must have been a _very_ trusted servant. He seems articulate for his age. Certainly, I wouldn't have taken him for a servant. He has all the address of a lordling—if not exactly a lordling's manner. Educated?"

Her words crackled with meaning, and Eamon forced a smile. "Somewhat, my lady. We want to make sure Alistair is positioned to take up a trade that will serve him well, when he is old enough."

"Of course," Aleda agreed. "If you're going to raise a charity orphan, I suppose it _is _best to do the thing properly."

The conversation turned to other subjects—the children of the village first, naturally, then of course what the Redcliffe Chantry taught them on rest days, and inevitably to the Chantry itself. Teagan soon fell back into his stupor, and Eamon fell back into the routine of polite, empty nothings with visitors he wished would leave. Bann Aleda kept up her end of the old dance, but her black eyes glittered through the rest of the meal, and when the company rose to leave the hall and return to their individual pursuits for the afternoon before they came back together for supper tonight, she requested Eamon escort her back to her room.

Eamon took her arm—mere politeness—and began leading her as fast as he could politely lead her back to the lady's quarters. Their route led them past a gallery that looked out on the courtyard. Teagan had already retreated out there, and Eamon saw his brother running beside Urso now, shouting something inaudible at Alistair, who returned an answer that, by the look on his boyish face, was probably impudent in the extreme. Teagan threw his head back and laughed, changed direction, and ran at the boy, head lowered, like a bull. Alistair shrieked in delight and bounded away toward an oak.

"Your brother spends much time with the servants, does he?" Bann Aleda murmured. Her left hand gripped Eamon's arm like a claw.

"Teagan is fond of children," Eamon replied. "And he is here frequently, and we _have _watched Alistair grow up. The boy has no one else, Bann Aleda. We found we could not leave him _entirely_ to Anet and the servants, as capable as they are."

Aleda hummed as they rounded the corner and started up the stairs to the guest rooms. "And there is something about this particular child, I think. Altogether charming, as Amity noted, and beautiful with it, but he also strikes me as familiar somehow." She let out a laugh like skeleton leaves in a Wintermarch wind. "Perhaps he just has one of those faces."

"I wouldn't know, my lady," Eamon lied, going cold. He did know.

They had arrived at Aleda's door, and Eamon released her arm and bowed. She swept him a perfunctory curtsey and thanked him for walking her to her room. Eamon lied again that he looked forward to seeing her at supper, she made the obligatory polite response, and then, mercifully vanished inside.

Eamon walked away quickly. Bann Aleda was a spiteful, bitter woman. That was becoming abundantly clear. She knew Alistair was a bastard, of course, but she probably thought he was Eamon's, or perhaps Teagan's, and was taunting them for perceived sentimentality, on top of indiscretion. But there was always the chance!

Eamon tried to remember if he'd seen Aleda at court recently, if Teagan had mentioned her. The trouble was, he so rarely went to court himself these days.

Alistair didn't look a thing like him. If a person squinted and wanted to believe it, they could perhaps force some resemblance to Teagan, who had inherited their father's lighter coloring as opposed to the darker one Eamon and Rowan had received from their mother. But really, the arrangement of Alistair's features, the dancing hazel eyes, and the golden cast to the hair were all different from Teagan as well. If Bann Aleda was not merely trying to provoke him and truly did find something familiar about Alistair, it likely was not Eamon or his brother that she was trying to recall.

The boy looked more like his true father and his half-brother every day. _Acted_ like them. Amity spoke of Alistair's charm, Aleda of his address; at times, Eamon could swear he _saw _Maric looking out of Alistair's face, as he had been when Eamon was very young, proposing some wild scheme to Rowan or telling some awful lie to one of Queen Moira's soldiers to get out of whatever scrape he'd gotten into that day.

Just as well Eamon did stay away from court these days. He could never take the boy there. _Never._

Had Aleda really noticed anything? Impossible to tell. Even if she thought she had seen something in the boy, there was no way she could prove it. Not without a mother. If she was invested enough in the question to do any prodding at all, the trail would only lead her to the wastrel younger son of a bann. The wet nurse that had cared for Alistair prior to the death of the woman that had been meant to be his foster mother and afterward had long since been paid to retire to the Free Marches.

But eventually, someone that knew Maric or Cailan well would come. Someone perceptive with a gift for seeing beyond the obvious. And then all Maric's plans, all Eamon's sacrifices, would come to nothing.

* * *

LATER

Alistair bounced into Eamon's study at the appointed hour that evening. He ran right over to Urso, who was sitting by Eamon's desk again, and wrapped his arms around the dog, who closed his eyes with pleasure and licked the boy's face once or twice in a lazy way. Alistair giggled, then looked up at Eamon. "You wanted to see me, milord?"

Eamon drummed his fingers on his desk. He shifted in his chair. "I did," he admitted. He swallowed, looking into the cheerful, open countenance of the child. Eyes that were the mirror of Maric's. "Your behavior at dinner today was unacceptable. Swiping desserts from the kitchens like a pirate, daring the maids to chase you? Barging in on me and on my guests and addressing all of us without proper introductions?"

Alistair's eyes went wide. "I forgot they were coming today, I told you!" he protested. "I wouldn't have done it if I'd remembered! I know better than _that_! I thought you'd be out on the terrace with Bann Teagan, or taking dinner later like usual!"

"That excuses only the timing of your escapade, not the exploit itself, and you're missing the point, Alistair," Eamon said. "Your behavior was wild, coarse, and, worst of all, familiar. You forget your place."

Alistair went pink, then white. His lower lip started to tremble. He was only a very little boy. "I'm sorry," he said again, more quietly than he had done at dinner. "I didn't mean to make you angry."

Eamon sighed. He felt a very brute. Alistair was a mischievous, impudent scamp, true, but there was no real harm in him, and a great deal of good. He was also happy, bright, creative, and amusing. Better still, he was openhearted, affectionate, and generous, with a noble spirit and a gift for making others love him—men and women as well as dogs. The servants adored Alistair as much as Teagan did. Of course, this all meant that the boy drew even more unwanted attention to himself than his resemblance to his true father might warrant.

"I'm not angry so much as disappointed," he said. "I expect better manners from a boy that has grown up in my house."

"I'll do better," Alistair promised. "I swear! I'll double check who's in for dinner before I take _anything_ from the kitchens next time!" He tried to catch Eamon's eye, the corner of his mouth twitching up hopefully. When Eamon didn't smile, Alistair hung his head. "I'll do better," he said, defeated. "But it would help if you told me what you meant. About 'familiar' and knowing my place." A sullen note had crept into his voice. He wasn't used to being reprimanded like this, and it showed.

"Alistair. Look at me," Eamon said.

The boy looked up. His eyes were shining, and as Eamon watched, the boy brought an angry hand to dash rebellious tears away. He jutted his chin out, daring for Eamon to mention them. Eamon didn't. His chest felt tight, and guilt clawed at his throat, but he spoke. "You're a servant's bastard, Alistair," Eamon told the boy. "I have raised you in my house. Anet and the servants love you. So does my brother. I'm fond of you myself. It's a pleasure to watch you learn and grow. You have no living family that can care for you, so perhaps we have indulged you somewhat. But you are _not _a member of this household, and you must always remember that. You cannot speak to my guests as if they are also yours."

Alistair burst out again, weeping in earnest now. "I didn't!" he cried. "I remembered to bow, twice, just like you showed me! I called them my lords and ladies! I was polite! I was!"

"You were cheeky," Eamon disagreed. "You should have followed Tess's example the moment you saw we were at table. Bowed, submitted your apologies for the interruption, and gone away until dinner was over. You chatted with the knights and ladies, without an introduction I'll remind you, as if you were a lordling yourself. I believe one or two of them were offended by it."

"I didn't mean it," Alistair cried. "I _said_ I didn't mean it. I'm _sorry_." His fists clenched by his sides, and Urso whined in distress and licked his hot little face again, this time to wash the tears off. The mabari looked at Eamon reproachfully.

Eamon stood. He walked the two steps over to the boy, fished a handkerchief out of his sleeve, and handed it to Alistair. "There now. No need for that. They weren't _angry_, Alistair. You're a boy, and we all make allowances for that."

Alistair scrubbed at his face with the handkerchief, and Eamon walked over to an alcove where Robern kept a pitcher of water and glasses. Eamon poured one for Alistair, walked back, and handed it to him. The boy sipped it, hiccupping slightly, and hugging Urso around the neck with his free arm. "Do I need to wash up in the kitchen again, or help Tess with the fireplaces?" he asked after he'd stopped crying. "Or Varrel in the stables? Or m'I writing out how I've been bad twenty times with Master Arnel? My spelling's got better, he says."

Certainly he _had_ indulged the boy, Eamon thought. How many common bastards knew how to read and write, and at five years old? But lessons with the Guerrins' old tutor were practically the only times in the day the boy sat still, and Arnel had been so happy to have someone to teach again, let alone a pupil as bright and eager as Alistair.

Eamon put his hand on the child's narrow shoulder and squeezed, once. "Just _remember_," he said finally. "Introduce yourself to others before speaking, and only if they address you first. You are not the equal of these people. The sooner you learn that, the better off you'll be. When you're a little older, forgetting could do worse than embarrass me, or Teagan. It could get you punished by whichever master you go to, or impair you in your trade. Our world doesn't look kindly on the insolent or presumptuous, and I know you're not either, when you think of it."

Alistair pressed his lips together, then looked up. "Is 'insolent' and 'presumptuous' the same as 'familiar' and forgetting my place?" he asked, uncertain.

It was an honest question. Eamon sighed. "Something of the same kind, yes. Good. You'll remember?"

Alistair nodded. "I'll remember." He had calmed now, and he gripped Eamon's hand with the same trusting affection as always, but as Eamon looked down into the child's face, he saw a new, sad confusion there, some dampening of the boy's vibrant spirit. Eamon's heart ached to see it, and Urso huffed softly, blowing doggy breath into the boy's face.

"Then go," Eamon said, releasing Alistair's shoulder and disentangling his hand from the boy's. "It's late, and Riala will be after me for keeping you up past your bedtime."

Alistair nodded again. "Good night, milord," he said. He bowed, and walking softly toward the door in a step that held none of its prior bounce, he was gone.

Urso huffed again as he watched the boy go. He looked at Eamon and let out another anxious whine. Eamon glared at his dog. "Don't give me that, Urso. It's for his own good, and if you don't know it, you aren't as clever as your breed is meant to be. Maric charged me with his son's protection. I can't protect him if he's flashing in front of every guest like a bolt of lightning. He has to blend in. He _has_ to know his place. Anyway, he _is_ a bastard."

Urso barked, once. Eamon sank back into his chair and rubbed his temples with his hand. "I know," he told the dog.

* * *

**A/N: Okay, so what happens in Alistair's childhood is **_**not**_** okay. I view Arl Eamon as directly responsible for many of Alistair's later hang-ups and insecurities, though not all of them, as you'll see. Alistair is a clever, charismatic, sensitive character, but later, he acts like someone who has been **_**conditioned**_** not to stand out, not to trust himself, to stay in the background. Like someone who has been repeatedly reprimanded and pushed down when he draws attention to himself. And like someone who's been bullied, though I don't think Eamon was directly responsible for that at all. **

**See, for whatever reason, there is canonically some trust and affection between these two, though their relationship does undergo a great deal of strain. I needed to address that in this project, but I also needed to address the strain. And as I've planned this out, I haven't forgiven Eamon for the way he treats Alistair (or for other gripes I have against him in **_**DA:O**_**), but, particularly as I've researched more of the auxiliary materials and found out more about Maric, I have found myself sympathizing with Eamon somewhat. He was given a very difficult, dangerous job, and in his position, at times it must have seemed almost impossible. Maybe he was afraid. Maybe he adopted a heavier hand than he really meant to, trying to protect Alistair from his own nature, because Eamon knew just how badly it could bite the kid in the butt. Maybe he was clumsy. **

**Or maybe Urso's right, and the guy's just way too hard on an already sensitive little boy that doesn't get why he can play with Teagan and Urso like family but isn't part of Eamon's household. **

**Leave a review if you've got something to say,**

**LMSharp **


	12. Kaycee: Lessons

**Characters:** F!Hawke (Kaycee), Bethany Hawke, Malcolm Hawke, OMC Brother Jimis, Leandra Hawke, Carver Hawke

**Pairings: **Malcolm/Leandra Hawke

**AU Elements: **None

* * *

**9:15 Dragon**

**Calvin, Southern Bannorn, Ferelden**

Bethany liked the Chantry. She said it smelled nice. She liked looking at the fancy tapestries on the walls and the illumination in the richest old books in the libraries, and she liked the singing of the mothers, brothers, and sisters. More than once, Kaycee had caught Bethany singing the Chant to herself—on ordinary days outside of services, even! Kaycee didn't understand that at all.

She didn't mind it, really, but it was annoying her baby sister had the voice for it, when Carver said that when Kaycee sang, she sounded like a tortured toad. Kaycee didn't think she was as bad as all that—Mama said Carver was just being a little brother when he said it—but Kaycee knew Bethany did have the better singing voice. She didn't think little sisters should be allowed to be better at things, and so she always squirmed during the congregational participation passages at services, standing in the very back of the Chantry, hidden in the shadows with the others.

Really, though, that was why Kaycee didn't care for the Chantry as much as Bethany did. She liked burning incense, a well-sewn tapestry, and big old books as much as anyone, but they always had to be so _careful_ in the Chantry. During services, in right when everyone else came in too—never early and never late—but out first of all. They were never allowed to ask any of the brothers or sisters any questions. Even Mama and Carver couldn't. Better if no one in any of the Chantries they went to thought too much about them. Every service they went to just reminded Kaycee how different they were.

And she _hated_ the way most anyone she had ever heard give a sermon talked about magic. They had gone to a couple of Chantries where the lecturing clergy didn't talk about magic at all, and that always made for a nice change, but Kaycee had only ever heard one brother say that mages were the Maker's children just like everyone else and could use their magic for a holy purpose. It was always "'ware the demons and those that consort with them," and "and so the magisters, in their arrogance, seeking to control all the world, invaded the Golden City and turned it black with their sin, and darkspawn have plagued the world ever since," and, over and over and over again until her ears felt like they would bleed, "magic exists to serve man and never to rule over him." Except what most the Chantry seemed to really be saying was that anyone who had magic wasn't really a person at all, would definitely always try to rule over everyone else, and could never be good if they _weren't_ always a servant.

Almost every time someone gave a sermon about magic, Kaycee left Chantry services feeling either small or furious.

But the worst times were times like tonight, when Father brought them to the Chantry after everyone had left. It was dark outside, and candles were expensive, so there were almost no candles burning, and the shadows between the pillars seemed to yawn and gape when they came to the Chantry at these times.

But the Chantry had all the books.

Why did the Chantry have all the books?

For the past few weeks, it had been Calvin, a village in the Southern Bannorn. Calvin was nice enough. There weren't any Circles nearby, and there weren't even Templars stationed here, normally. They patrolled through every few months, and Father had already got hold of the schedule so they could be "on a hunting trip" those days. They would probably have to move on anyway, but Kaycee hoped it might not be for a while yet. The twins were tired, and Mama hadn't had a chance to really unpack and make the homey things she loved to for a long time.

But Calvin's Chantry was smaller than most of them and didn't have nearly as many books. Still, Father had done what he usually did and made friends with someone that hung around the place. This time, it was a brother responsible for taking care of the building after hours.

Tonight, he'd brought a bottle of wine to get Brother Jimis to leave the door open for them. Father had picked up the wine from some bandits they had fought on their way here. He said it was a nice vintage, and he had told Kaycee that Chantry brothers in little villages like Calvin didn't often get fine wines from Orlais like this one. Brother Jimis knew they wouldn't do anything bad, too, because anyone who talked to Father knew he was a scholar. If he wanted to teach his little girls to be scholars too, when the press of everyone coming and going wouldn't distract them from their studies, what was the harm in it?

Kaycee held Bethany's hand as Father talked and joked with Brother Jimis and Bethany bounced with excitement. She was little enough that it was only her third visit like this to the Chantry. She had only just learned how to write her name at home (doing better than Carver, who was still mixing up several letters and whose handwriting was atrocious). Father would have left her at home with Mama still, but a few months ago, she had started talking about visiting the Fade in her dreams, and that meant that she was a mage, just like Kaycee.

Brother Jimis was grinning, happy about the wine, but also to be helping such a nice man educate his daughters. He bent down and waved in the way that meant he thought they were cute, but stupid as well as little. Kaycee had learned there was no real point in correcting grown-ups like that, so she grinned back up at him, tilting her head to the side in a way most kind people found _adorable_. "Thanks for letting us into the Chantry, Brother Jimis," she said, in a higher, sillier voice than she would normally. "I love the stories Father reads us here!"

"No trouble at all, Mistress Kaycee," Jimis beamed, reaching out to tug on one of her curls. "Enjoy!" He ruffled Bethany's hair and walked away whistling toward his little house down the road. Bethany scowled and stuck her tongue out at him behind his back, trying to finger-comb her own curls back into order.

"None of that," Kaycee told her sister. "Brother Jimis is doing us a favor."

"He mussed my hair," Bethany argued. "And didn't it hurt when he pulled _your_ hair?"

"Not enough for me to whine about it."

Kaycee led Bethany up to where Father was holding the Chantry door open for them both. The big, empty room beyond seemed like an open mouth. Kaycee sighed.

There were only three candles flickering in the dark—one close to them, by the door; one down the aisle; and another up by the aisle. None near the little library in a room off to the side.

Father let the Chantry door boom closed behind them. Kaycee could only see his and Bethany's outlines in the dark. "Kaycee, do you think you could give us a light?" he asked.

Kaycee had mastered that spell years ago. She didn't even need her staff for it anymore. She held up her fist and thought, and a bright, white light rose up around her palm, casting weird shadows in every direction but making it easy to see Father and Bethany.

"I want you to hold that as long as we're here," Father told her. "If you can determine a way to make the light leave your hand by yourself so you can rest your arm, all the better, but don't let that light go out."

That was her assignment for the evening, then. She wouldn't be in trouble if she failed, but Father would be disappointed, and he would just ask her to do it again next time, and again, until she got it right.

"Why does Kaycee have to do the light this time?" Bethany asked. "Can't you do it anymore, Father?"

"Easily, Bethany. But I want to see if Kaycee can do it. Why do you think that is?"

Father led the way toward the back library, and Bethany followed after him. Kaycee went more slowly, focused on keeping the light steady around her palm, already wondering how she could cast it away from her to rest her arm without it going out. If Father said she could do it, there was a way.

Bethany was thinking, trying to answer Father's question. "Because she's getting older? Becoming a stronger mage. But she can't do that if she doesn't practice?"

"Very good," Father said gravely. "And Kaycee, what do you think it is that I want you to practice?"

Kaycee considered, and as she did, the light flickered around her hand. She grinned, steadying it. "Focus," she whispered. "Have to concentrate, or the light will go out."

"I want to try!" Bethany cried. She held up her hand like Kaycee, and concentrated hard on it. Father covered it with his own.

"All things in time, Little Bethany. You wouldn't try to swim the Waking Sea before you had learned to dog paddle, would you?"

Bethany sighed. "Fine," she said.

They were in the little library now, and Father turned to the bookshelves, considering. There would be a passage for Bethany and a passage for Kaycee, Kaycee knew, and if Father had asked Brother Jimis while they were talking, maybe they would take a longer book home for Kaycee to read in between now and the next time they could come to the Chantry.

Honestly, Kaycee loved the lessons _in_ the Chantry. Each time, Father had a new challenge for her. There had been wonderful stories when she was Bethany's age, legends and songs and poems from all over Thedas, and now there were histories, and interesting things about different kinds of rocks and plants and animals that Father made her apply to her lessons during the rest of the week. She knew most girls didn't get to learn about history and legends and why squirrels slept through the winter, and it made her feel clever and special.

She just hated having them in the _empty_ Chantry after dark. Kaycee tried to ignore the large room at their backs, the looming darkness anyone or anything might be creeping through. Each time she thought of it, the light wavered, and it was harder to pay attention to the lesson—either the one about healing Father meant for her or the one about Andraste he meant for Bethany. He had questions for both of them about both lessons, and expected them to ask one another questions too. She needed all her attention to study, and to complete the assignment he had given her for tonight.

They had been talking for a long time before she figured out how to will the ball of light around her hand away from it and send it to hover over their heads. She lost it for a moment at first, and the light went out. The Chantry went dark, except for the light from the three tiny candles.

But Father didn't scold her. When she conjured the light again around her fist, he was proud instead. "Good, Kaycee. Now can you hold it steady?" He conjured his own globe of light so Bethany could keep working on her own task—writing a line from the simple story he had read to her on a sheet of paper, over and over again, with as few inkblots as possible. And Father turned his attention to her for a while, now explaining how she could hold the light in her mind, stretch out her imagination to will it to appear anywhere she liked.

"It's easier around your hand because you know yourself," Father explained. "You do not have to try to be aware of where the light should be. To send the light elsewhere, you have to hold in your mind the space that it is to fill. The memory exercises we've worked on at home will help you here."

"It would be easier to hold the space in my mind if I could _see_ it," Kaycee couldn't help saying, with a little huff.

Father laughed. "So it would. No doubt that would be a great achievement: doing something that is easy for you."

Kaycee made a face at him, and she practiced conjuring globes of light at several different distances until Father said it was time to go. Before they left, she could not only hold a ball of light halfway across the room steady for several minutes, she had even experimented with making one move. It flickered and started to lose its shape then, but it was still a win. Father hugged her and kissed her forehead.

They put out his light and hers and moved to the Chantry door, working only by the light of the candles now. "Father," Bethany wanted to know, "why do we only have lessons in the Chantry when everyone else is gone?"

Kaycee sighed. It was about time Bethany heard, but she knew the answer would scare her sister and make her sad. Father took Bethany's hand as they left the Chantry and started walking home. When he spoke, he kept his voice quiet, too quiet for anyone but Kaycee and Bethany to hear, even if they were up and out of their houses so late at night.

"The Chantry says magic exists to serve man and never to rule over him," he said. "They believe that in order to follow that rule, mages like you and me and your sister must always be watched, kept in Circles of Magic by the Templars and only allowed outside when they are asked to meet a specific need in the community—to heal a hurt, to build something far faster than those who are not mages could build themselves, or to fight a war for their country. Mages who do not obey this custom the Chantry calls 'apostates,' and their Templars are allowed to take them to Circles by force, even to hurt and kill them if they resist too often or are found to practice forbidden magic—magic meant to harm others for a selfish purpose, or to garner power over the minds of others. Magic like consorting with demons or blood rites.

"We'll talk about the practices the Chantry has forbidden more when both of you are older, and why studying those forms is indeed foolish and often evil," Father continued. "But remember, most in the Chantry do not care whether an apostate practices forbidden magic or not. They are afraid of any mage who chooses to live outside of the Circles of Magic. And so any mage who does this is in some danger."

"We're in danger?" Bethany whispered. Then, "This is why we keep moving, isn't it?"

Father nodded. "I have chosen to live outside the Chantry's Circles of Magic, and not to give either of you girls up to them. So we are apostates, and we must always be aware of the Templars, and of our neighbors' response to our magic."

"Why are we apostates, though?" Bethany demanded. "Couldn't we just go to their Circles? Are they bad?"

Father didn't answer for a moment. "I don't believe all of them are. Some, no doubt, are places of learning and sanctuary for mages. You already know that magic is powerful and dangerous, that spirits may seek you out in the Fade when you sleep, and that if you hold fear, greed, or evil desires in your mind when they do, these spirits may also be demons, or become demons, and seek to harm you and others. An untrained or evil mage can do more harm than anyone who does not have magic, and even if a mage is both well-trained and a good person, those who do not have that same power will often fear her."

"But they don't have families in the Circles," Kaycee told Bethany, quietly. "It isn't allowed. Templars take mage children away from their parents. Any children mages have _in_ the Circles are taken away too. Mages to different Circles, and other children to a monastery or an orphanage or something. And when parents have two children that are mages, like you and me, their children are taken to different Circles, so the children love their Circles most, not their brothers and sisters."

There were tears in Bethany's eyes. "So if we weren't apostates, we couldn't be together?"

"No," Kaycee whispered.

"But if we stay apostates, we'll always have to hide from the Templars."

"Your mother and I made you and your sister's choice for you," Father said. "I know that. Someday, when you're grown up, if you like, you can leave us and go to a Circle. The Templars won't hurt you if you surrender."

"If they're nice," Kaycee said under her breath. "Not all of them _are_."

"Some are," Father said, a little sharply. "Several Templars are noble people. They do what they do because they believe it is necessary, to protect mages and to protect everyone else. I knew a Templar once who was both good and wise. He helped me leave Kirkwall with your mother because he knew I had vowed never to use my magic in evil, selfish ways. What is that vow, Kaycee?"

"My magic will serve that which is best in me," Kaycee repeated. "Not that which is most base." She had heard that many times, over and over and over again since Father had first realized she would be a mage like him.

Bethany was still stuck on the Circle. "Will you go to a Circle when you're old enough, Kaycee?" she asked.

"No."

Bethany frowned at how quickly she had answered. "But if they ever catch us, they could kill us!"

"I don't want to leave Mama and Daddy," Kaycee said flatly. "Carver's a little insect—"

"Kaycee!" Both Father and Bethany said it at once.

Kaycee rolled her eyes. "Well he _is_. But I don't want to leave him either. And I don't want some old Chantry mother telling me what magic I'm safe to use, or warning me I have to be extra careful of sin with my magic so I don't destroy myself and everyone else, like I don't _know_ I have to be careful."

"But you said people watch mages in the Circle, right?" Bethany asked Father. "Like you watch me and Kaycee. Isn't that good? Wouldn't mages in the Circle be better about making mistakes?"

"You would think so, wouldn't you?" Father replied. "But I have lived in the Circles, Bethany, and I saw that a _watched_ mage rarely learns to watch herself. If the Templars are always right there to save things when something goes wrong, it is all too easy to become lazy. Careless." He looked sad for a moment in the moonlight over the hills. "And sometimes," he added, "there is no chance for a mage to correct the mistakes they do make. As for the way _I_ watch you and your sister, it is very similar to the way your mother first watched all three of you children when you first learned to walk. When you were yea-high," he said, showing them with his hand, "Of course your mother kept you in view at all times. But that was only until you got stronger and wiser. Then she would let you go into the yard outside the window, then down the lane, and finally on little journeys all your own. That is the way I want it to be with your magic as well. If you wander too close to a hornet's nest or to a cliff, I am here, ready to call you back. But if you stumble and fall—well, you will be all the stronger next time. And someday, I hope that you will no longer need me."

Bethany pouted. "I don't understand," she said, as they turned back into the yard of their own home.

"Do you, Kaycee?" Father asked.

"I think so, a little," Kaycee said. "You mean you're watching us now, while we grow, but you want us to eventually learn enough that we don't need you watching at all. And that because someone is _always_ watching in the Circles of Magic, the mages _there_ don't always learn that much."

"Very good," Father praised her. "I've also found that the Chantry breathing down the necks of all the mages in the Circle about forbidden magic can make them resentful instead of wise—more likely to try to sin instead of less—but again, we can talk about that when you're older."

"I wish you'd tell us now," Bethany complained. "It's stupid being little. I wish I was grown-up right now."

Father seized Bethany's waist, brought her up, kissed her face, and hugged her to him tightly. "And I wish you'd never get any bigger at all. What will I do without my girls?"

Bethany giggled and squirmed, and Kaycee, smiling, opened the door to the house. It was dark inside, like the Chantry, but in here, the warm light from the still-burning coals on the stove was enough to show every corner of the main room of the house. Kaycee could see Mama asleep on the bed, a blanket draped over her, breathing slow and deep, already sleeping.

Father and Bethany came in behind her, and Father whispered for Bethany to go with Kaycee. He walked across to the bed and dropped a kiss on Mama's head, and Kaycee heard Mama murmur sleepily, saw her reach up for Father.

She led Bethany into the little room the two of them shared with Carver. Carver was sitting in the window. It was open, and his legs hung outside of the house. There was a fur rug on both shelf beds Father had made and Mama had stuffed for them, and the wind from outside was cold. Carver shivered in his nightshirt but sat stubbornly, staring at Calvin outside.

"You should be sleeping, Carver," Kaycee told him, keeping her voice quiet.

"Why should I?" he pouted. "You aren't. Bethany isn't."

"We had lessons," Bethany said. "You know that. Come in, and close the shutter. It's freezing!"

"So make a fire," Carver retorted. "I'm not moving. I like it here."

"Oh, 'make a fire.' Inside, without a stove or hearth? Stop being stupid, Carver, and just come in," Kaycee ordered him.

Now Carver looked at her. His golden eyes, just like Bethany's and Mama's, flashed in the moonlight. "Maybe I am stupid. _I _didn't have a lesson tonight. Father never gives _me_ any lessons—"

"He does, and so does Mama," Kaycee argued.

"Not as much then," Carver snapped. He was angry. "It isn't fair!"

"Carver!"

That was Father's voice. He'd heard from the other room. The door opened, and he and Mama, carrying a candle, came to stand in the doorway.

Mama saw where Carver was sitting. "Carver, get down from there at once and close the shutter! You'll catch your death of cold."

"I told him, Mama," Bethany piped up. "He wouldn't listen."

"Snitch!" Carver said, swinging down from the windowsill and slamming the shutter closed. "Perfect little Bethany."

Tears welled up in Bethany's eyes. "I'm not!"

Kaycee stepped up to stand between the twins. She folded her arms. "It's just _rude_ to say she told you that you were being stupid," she informed Carver. "It isn't snitching when everyone _saw_ you up there."

"Enough, Kaycee," Father said, as Carver opened his mouth to yell back at her. "Take off your cloak and get ready for bed. You too, Bethany. Carver, why weren't you in bed an hour ago? Your mother tells me she asked you to go."

"It isn't fair!" Carver said again, stamping his foot. He was crying too now. "Why do I have to go to bed when they get to go with you? I want to go to the Chantry too!" He stamped his foot again. His fists were balled up at his sides.

"You have your own lessons, Carver, in the yard during the daytime."

"Not like theirs!" Carver insisted.

"Because they are not like you," Father said. "Don't stamp your foot at me again, Carver. I mean it. It's a fact, son. The sooner you accept it the better. You may yet prove a mage. I don't know. Some children don't manifest until nearly twenty—"

"Then teach me like them," Carver begged. "What if I am a mage and later, I'm behind?"

"What if you never are, and watching your sisters study things that you cannot master diverts your attention from the things that you can?" Father asked in turn.

"It's not better or worse, not having magic, Carver," Mama told him, walking across with the candle and wrapping her arm around his shoulders. "It's just different. For now, at least, you need to learn different things than your sisters, and those things require a different schedule. Your Father had planned to work with you on your staff work early tomorrow morning, but if you're tired and grumpy, what kind of lesson will you have?"

"We were going to have a lesson?" Carver asked Father. "Just the two of us? You aren't just saying that to make me be quiet?"

Father's face darkened. "Am I a liar, son?"

Kaycee sniffed, pulling her own nightshirt over her head. "Yes," she answered for Carver, holding her hand out for Bethany's cloak and handing Bethany her day dress to fold. "You lie all the time." She looked at her little brother. "But he doesn't lie to _us_."

"Sauce," Father told her, but Kaycee could see him hiding a smile behind his beard.

Carver looked from Father to Kaycee, gripping Mama's hand on his shoulder. Kaycee looked back at him, keeping her eyes wide and her face still. It worked. Carver felt silly, and he looked down. "Sorry," he muttered. "Can we still have the lesson, even though I disobeyed Mama? Please?"

"There have to be consequences for our actions, Carver," Father said. "You will be less prepared now that you will not get enough sleep before I was to wake you." He paused, then inclined his head. "I will have to wake you later, and I have business of my own tomorrow. It will not be as long as it might have been, and that is your responsibility . . . but we will still have a lesson."

Carver's mouth twisted in the candlelight. "I understand," he mumbled. "Good night, then." He let Mama kiss his head, hugged her hand close to his face roughly, then swung himself up to his bed on the top shelf, and pulled his rug over his face and body.

"Good night, Carver," Father said. "I love you, son."

Carver didn't answer for a moment, then his voice came back. It sounded funny through the fur. "Love you too."

Kaycee rolled her eyes, kissed Mama's cheek, and gave Father a hug before sliding into her own place on the bottom shelf bed.

"Love you, Mama, Father," Bethany said quietly, saying her own goodnights. She slid into bed beside Kaycee, and Mama and Father left, closing the door behind them and leaving the room in darkness.

Kaycee waited for it, and sure enough, after the sounds in the main room had been stopped for several minutes, she felt the mattress moving beside her as Bethany threw off the rug and stood up on the bed to peer through the darkness at Carver's shelf.

"Don't be mad, Carver," she whispered. "Please don't be mad."

"Go to sleep," he told her. "I have to be up early tomorrow. If I'm sleepy, Father won't teach me at all. You heard him."

"But are you mad?" Bethany persisted.

"It's still not fair," Carver whispered after a moment. "Why d'you and Kaycee have to be mages? I'm the only one without magic. It's stupid. I just hate it."

"I wish I was normal like you and Mama," Bethany said. "I don't want to be magic. I hate _that_. D'you know what it _means_ for me and Kaycee?"

Kaycee heard Carver turn over on the top bunk. Away from Bethany. "I don't care," he said. She could hear the tears in his whisper. "All I know is Father likes you both better than me, and _it's not fair_."

"He doesn't, though. Oh, Carver, you can't believe that!" Bethany was crying too. "And anyway, _I _love you. Mama loves you. More than anything!"

_That's done it_, Kaycee thought. By talking about that, as if who Father loved better didn't even matter, Bethany just sounded like she believed Carver. "Bethany, come back down here or we'll all be in trouble," she said.

"But it's wrong," Bethany said, even as she did what Kaycee told her to. She was sobbing, but quietly. "_I _love you, Carver. _I_ love you. Don't be mad."

Silence. Then, like he didn't really want to say it, "Oh, stop crying, Bethany. It isn't _your_ fault. I'm not mad at _you_. Just at . . . I don't know. At everything else. I don't know."

"Well," Kaycee breathed. "That's specific."

"_You_ don't help, you know," Carver whispered harshly. "You think you're so smart, but you _never_ help. I hate _you_."

"Oh, Carver, you can't mean that. She's our big sister. Say sorry!" Bethany gasped.

"I do mean it," Carver said viciously, and it stabbed Kaycee like a knife. She curled up in a ball, and felt Bethany's hand on her shoulder. "Well . . . mostly," Carver whispered. "Okay, I don't. I'm sorry. But you _don't_ help, Kaycee."

"Neither do you," Kaycee whispered back, tears in her own voice now. _Insect. _No one spoke after that, and they all tried to go to sleep.

* * *

**A/N: I love the Hawke family, and one of the reasons I love them most is that they're so **_**real**_**. They try to love one another, but they have problems. There are secrets. There's tension with real-life circumstances. There's favoritism. There's sibling rivalry.**

**This chapter, I think, is a good introduction to the characters when they aren't fleeing for their lives in a crisis situation. I found that Kaycee at eight when she's safe is a somewhat different creature from Kaycee at six, pursued by Templars and stalked by demons preying on her fears, and of course, it's a lot easier to get to know a six-year-old Bethany and Carver than it is to know two terrified toddlers. I think they're pretty in character for who they grow to be.**

**This chapter also afforded a great opportunity to see Malcolm Hawke to advantage. He's a character that only really exists in the backstory of the games, but from everything we learn of him, I think he must have been something like this. At first, he seems to be the ideal father, like Anthony Pentaghast is an ideal brother, but no—his flight from Chantry law and the way he has to raise children who are not all mages, however you paint the eldest Hawke, means that it is not **_**quite**_** so. Malcolm's a good man, a good father, and a great teacher—but he has also **_**caused**_** the troubles that plague his family. **

**This is it for this installment in my Singer and Subject series. In the next installment, we'll get to know all these children quite a bit better, and things start **_**happening**_** to get some of them to places you might be more familiar with, while other characters continue to develop and discover who they are. Stay tuned!**

**Leave a review if you've got something to say,**

**LMSharp**


	13. Author's Note

Here we are at the end of the second section of this project! Again, I'd like to extend my thanks to those of you who have submitted guest reviews. Even when you just sent a word, it gave me a much-needed boost to know that you were listening and enjoying the fic. I don't like begging for engagement from my readers. _I_ hate feeling obligated to review a fic when I can't think of anything to say other than "Yep. You did that. I was engaged enough to read the whole thing, so good job on that." My best reviews are written when a story I'm reading has provoked a genuine response from me, which is the reason I sign nearly all my chapters "Leave a review if you've got something to say." But when you do, even if that something is negative, it means _so_ much. Suddenly, I'm not shouting into the void. I realize that I'm _telling a story_ to Someone. Even having a conversation. The story I'm writing gains meaning—not from what I put into it, but from what you have given it. We create it together.

Some of you are Varric fans. Some of you have expressed that you relate to Cassandra, enjoy Kaycee's family, or feel for Alistair. I love hearing everything you choose to share with me, and it helps me understand the characters even better as I learn how _you_ understand them. To my readers who have actively participated in creating this symphonic weirdness with me in that other-space where my intention meets your interpretation: I am really, truly grateful. To those who have passively participated: it does make me sad and frustrated when you don't let me know what my story becomes when it reaches you—but communication will _always_ be your prerogative. And you are always, always welcome, whether you speak or not. Often enough, I am you. I get it.

If you would like to continue to follow this series, the next volume in the project—_The Subject and the Singers of the Song: 9:16–9:20 Dragon_—is now being posted. Every one of the characters I have introduced in this work or its prequel will appear, some of them now beginning to move toward adulthood. Check it out on my profile to keep reading!


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